


An Image of Lethe

by Lomonaaeren



Series: An Image of Lethe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Dark Magic, Drama, Gen, Harry Is Frustrated Often, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 168,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Ministry invents a way to distinguish between Light and Dark wizards, Harry Potter is one of the first test subjects to make sure the process is working properly. His utterly unexpected result propels him into the middle of a new political conflict: whether Dark wizards have the right to mingle with ordinary society. Updated every Sunday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a very long and mostly political story. The title comes from a phrase in an Ezra Pound poem, "The Coming of War: Actaeon."

"I don't know if it's safe," said a woman in front of Harry, a red-haired witch who reminded him for a moment of Molly, bowing her head nervously over her handbag.  
  
"I hear that Harry Potter is here to test it, and that means we can trust it works," said the wizard next to her, stroking his long white beard. And _he_ reminded Harry of Dumbledore, at least from the confidence in his voice. Although he thought Dumbledore hadn't sounded so much like a self-satisfied prat.  
  
"Really?" The woman stopped stroking her handbag. "Then that's a good thing."  
  
Harry grinned to himself and moved on. He was in a hooded cloak at the moment, to attract less attention among the crowd surging through Diagon Alley. He was going to test the Ministry's Lightfinder, but he was early, and he wanted a few moments to himself first.  
  
It seemed so long since he'd had a moment to himself.  
  
He leaned against a wall behind him, the wall of Ollivander's as he saw when he looked, and stared out at the crowd, and remembered.  
  
*  
  
Everyone at Fred's funeral was a crying, emotional mess.  
  
Harry counted himself in that category, but he wasn't as upset as anyone else. How could he be? He'd really liked Fred, thought of him as a friend, but that wasn't the same as a brother or a son. Or even a cousin, he thought, when he glanced at the mass of relatives the Weasleys had invited to the funeral, red-haired aunts and uncles and countless others that Harry thought hadn't even attended Bill and Fleur's wedding.  
  
Or a twin brother.  
  
Harry stayed with George silently when he could. But sometimes George turned around and wanted to talk, and sometimes he seemed to know where he was and sometimes it seemed like he didn't, and Harry never knew what voice was going to come out of his mouth.  
  
"Where's Fred?" he asked once, when other people were winding flowers around the tall headstone that Molly had chosen for her son. They'd had to work to get all the words she wanted carved on it actually carved, Harry remembered.  
  
"He's going to sleep," Harry said quietly. It was the standard response that the Weasleys had used with George, and most of the time, it seemed to work. George subsided and stared at the headstone again.  
  
"I didn't want to lose him," he whispered next, and Harry took George's hand in his own and squeezed tight.  
  
"I know," Harry said. "I'm so sorry." That was sometimes his mantra, especially when he was talking to Ron. He really didn't know what else to say. He hugged and cried with people, and he talked to them, and that was the extent of what he could do about Fred. It ached in him, all the time, that wound that meant the end of Fred. But at least he could still function. At least he knew where he was, unlike George sometimes did.  
  
"It's like--" George said, and paused.  
  
A second later, Harry realized what he was waiting for: Fred's voice to show up and complete his sentence, the way it always did. Harry grabbed George's hand when he started to point at the coffin, and looked carefully to make sure he didn't have his wand. Hermione had concealed George's wand a little while ago, after some...unfortunate incidents.  
  
"He's _gone_ and it _hurts_ ," George said.  
  
"I know," said Harry, and took the flowers from George's hands, floating them over to rest on top of the grave. "I'm so sorry."  
  
*  
  
Harry shook his head and glanced at the floating stage the Ministry had set up in front of Florean Fortescue's still-empty shop. No one was on it yet, although a few Ministry workers stood below it, floating up baskets of flowers and the small poles that were needed to support the simple equipment for the Lightfinder test.  
  
Harry worked his hand open and out. Kingsley had called an emergency meeting, not long after the end of the Death Eater trials, to deal with what he called "the Voldemort issue." Harry had gone, fearing that they had discovered some piece of Voldemort surviving, and that he would be expected to deal with it.  
  
But that hadn't been what had happened at all.  
  
*  
  
"I know that you don't want to hear this," said Kingsley, setting his hands on the edge of the table and standing up so he loomed over all of them. Well, at least Harry, opposite him at the odd five-sided table, felt loomed at. "But I'm about to speak ill of the dead."  
  
Harry stiffened, and he knew he wasn't the only one who did. Arthur Weasley was probably the most sensitive person in the room, but even the Ministry workers Harry didn't know well had lost lots of people in the war.  
  
"Please don't, Minister," said Arthur tiredly. "The _Daily Prophet_ does that enough already."  
  
"It's the dead of the early part of the war that I'm going to speak ill of," said Kingsley, and paused and took a breath as if he needed to reassure himself of that, too. "It's Dumbledore."  
  
Murmurs of surprise flitted around Harry. He blinked and focused harder on Kingsley. It seemed weird that Kingsley would need to do that, but he had to admit, he was curious about what Kingsley would say.  
  
Harry himself wasn't as positive on Dumbledore as all that anymore, not after what he had found out, but he would probably keep that to himself for the time being. There were lots of people who still thought of Dumbledore as a hero, and maybe they needed to go on thinking of him that way. Harry himself was trying to outgrow the need for heroes.  
  
"Dumbledore failed to contain an issue that he should have contained," Kingsley said, and his eyes were very hard. "He defeated Grindelwald. He saw the rise of a Dark Lord. And when he recognized what had happened with Voldemort, then he should have engaged in preventive measures that would have turned him back."  
  
Harry stirred. He did feel it incumbent on him to say something now. "We know that Voldemort was working on a way to make himself immortal, sir," he told Kingsley. "I'm not sure that Dumbledore could have defeated him."  
  
"I didn't mean personally duel him," said Kingsley, and his nostrils flared a little. "He didn't break the back of Grindelwald's movement because of that duel, although it helped. He took a lot of measures that prevented Grindelwald from gaining all the support he would have needed to take over Britain. He should have done the same thing with Voldemort. What made him terrifying? Not just himself. His Death Eaters, and the ideas he spread that appealed to some people. When he started realizing that Tom Riddle had gone Dark, he should have stopped him then, and exposed him the way he was exposing Grindelwald's rhetoric, right from the beginning."  
  
Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure that he had to right to talk about Dumbledore's personal history with Grindelwald.  
  
While he was pondering, other people had leaped into the gap. "Are you saying that you have reports of new Death Eaters?" Arthur's hand was tight on his wand. Harry wasn't surprised. He had grown more militant than ever since Fred's death.  
  
"No," said Kingsley. "What I have, according to the people in the Ministry who were working on such a thing between the first and second wars with Voldemort, is a way to identify Dark wizards. Not only that, but the precise degree to which their Darkness of magic corresponds with the evil of their souls."  
  
Harry was still puzzling that through when Mafalda Hopkirk, one of the people who had proved unexpectedly toughest about sweeping the vestiges of Voldemort's takeover from the Ministry, raised her hand with a little gasp. "You mean that they've finally invented some way to distinguish between Light and Dark magic in a wizard's core?" she whispered.  
  
Kingsley smiled fiercely at her. "Yes. It was theoretical for decades--centuries--but now they've done it. And what's more, they can expose it for the whole world to see." He paused, maybe to let the confused noise die down, and then added, "What's more, they've made a device that can expose how tainted the wizard's soul is because of it. A wizard who's strongly enchanted by the Dark Arts shows darker than someone who's only used the Dark Arts once or twice. And someone who's essentially Dark manifests a differently-colored aura around them than someone who's essentially Light."  
  
Hopkirk clasped her hands. She looked like she was in prayer. Most of the other adults appeared to be in something of the same state. Harry asked the question that was confusing him, because most of the adults expected him to be confused by everything anyway. "So someone who cast the Cruciatus once shows up lighter than someone who cast it lots of times?"  
  
"Yes," said Kingsley. "It's based on a principle of the rainbow. Apparently Muggle science knows a lot about this?" And he looked at Arthur, which made Harry snort a little. Arthur had a fascination with the odds and ends of Muggle culture, but he didn't know much about the science, or some of the inventions he tried to make would actually work.  
  
Then Harry winced, and felt bad about his thoughts. Arthur had turned even more to tinkering with things because Fred had died. If it was giving him comfort, then Harry shouldn't make fun of it.  
  
"I don't know the Muggle science," said Arthur, with the sort of sad dignity he had adopted since Fred's death. "But I know the procession of colors in a rainbow. Everyone can see them. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Are you telling me that the Darker wizards show up as the darker colors? Blue and violet?"  
  
"Yes." Kingsley was smiling, a sort of hungry smile. "Green is the beginning of the Dark colors, or the balance between Dark and Light, if you will. Someone who shows green is beginning to feel the taint, or maybe has had to make some corrupt decisions in situations where the use of Dark spells couldn't be avoided." For a second, Harry was sure that Kingsley was trying to lock eyes with him, but Harry glanced casually aside, and it failed. "It depends on how dark the shade of green is."  
  
"I see, I see," Arthur murmured, sounding as if he really did. Maybe some of the Muggle artifacts he'd had to adjust or take apart contained information about the rainbow, Harry decided. "So there's another reason beyond the symbolism for making it the rainbow. Colors come in so many different shades..."  
  
"That it allows us to determine the amount of Dark and Light magic influencing someone's core even more exactly." Kingsley gave them a grim nod. "I want the rise of the next Dark Lord stopped before it starts, and that depends not only on identifying individual Dark wizards, but identifying the ones most likely to give them support."  
  
"And their power level," said Hopkirk. From the faint awe in her voice, that was the part that most impressed her.  
  
Kingsley snapped his fingers. "I knew I was forgetting to emphasize something. Yes, exactly. The depth of the color, and the color itself, indicates where the wizard stands on the Dark or Light spectrum. The _intensity_ of the light reveals their power."  
  
"What about their souls?" Harry asked. He was wondering what would have happened if they'd put Voldemort through the artifact, or test, or whatever it was, with only a shred of his soul in his body. "How does the test track the damage to your soul?"  
  
"The taint to the soul is calculated by the interaction between the intensity of the light and its color," said Kingsley.  
  
Harry nodded, unsure. He was probably only unsure because he knew about Horcruxes, though, he thought. Everyone else seemed to understand it well enough. Soul magic couldn't be that common.  
  
And really, how likely was it that the Ministry would ever test someone who had a Horcrux? Harry was worrying about nothing, a contingency that was unlikely to happen. Since the war, he was doing his best to worry about what was in front of him instead of what he only imagined. That was enough to concern him, anyway.  
  
The discussion swept away into more abstract theoretical concerns that Harry didn't understand and pay much attention to. He thought Kingsley didn't, either, but he must have memorized enough of the information to give soothing answers to the people in his immediate inner circle who _did_ know. They sounded reassured by what he was saying, rather than troubled, and that was good enough for Harry.  
  
He only returned with a snap to the conversation when Kingsley turned towards him and said, smiling faintly, "And, of course, just to make sure that the process is working effectively, we need test subjects."  
  
"I volunteered for this when?" Harry asked suspiciously, but rolled his eyes when he saw the way Kingsley smiled at him.  
  
"Turnus, the item's inventor, is trying to get together wizards of every color and level of power," Kingsley explained. "He's having trouble finding someone that he thinks will blaze an intense red. There's absolutely no doubt of you shining like that, of course. You're our icon of the Light."  
  
"Um," said Harry, a little embarrassed.  
  
"The test will be in Diagon Alley on Monday, December 28th," Kingsley said. "You will be there. Don't be late."  
  
And the conversation swept on, and Harry sat back and shook his head. He didn't think Kingsley would subject him to a difficult or painful test on purpose or anything, but he disliked being volunteered for things without his consent.  
  
Then he shrugged. He supposed that was part of being the Boy-Who-Lived that he really couldn't avoid.  
  
*  
  
On the stage, the small poles had been set up, and the Lightfinder, a dark silver block with a black stone positioned on top of it, was being laid on top of them. Harry moved forwards. He thought it was time he got on stage.  
  
The pressure of the crowd made it harder to move, though, and so he had plenty of time to study the Lightfinder before he got close enough to mount the steps. The black stone in the center of the silver altar (that was what Turnus called it, and Harry had to admit he could see the reason for the comparison) was perfectly round and smooth. It reminded Harry of what one of Trelawney's crystal balls would have looked like if she had managed to turn it into obsidian.  
  
On the sides of the altar were two places for the wizard's hands to rest, small dimpled indentations. There was a mirror set up on another pole behind the altar, an enchanted one that could reflect the light's color and intensity and hold a perfect image to be called up later, rather like a Pensieve. According to Kingsley, that mirror was the major drawback of the Lightfinder. Each mirror could contain only three memories, and then it would need to be replaced before the tests could continue.  
  
But that was it. Like Kingsley said, it was a pretty simple device to give peace to the wizarding world.  
  
Harry was all in favor, though, and from the slow roar that rose around him when people saw him walk up the steps, so were plenty of others.  
  
Uriel Turnus came to meet him, shaking Harry's hand with one of his own perpetually damp ones. He was a small, squinting, bald man, except for the small fringe of russet hair that dangled down from the sides of his skull, almost hiding his neck. He immediately turned away from Harry to look at the Lightfinder.  
  
"Is that ready, Splinter?" he demanded of one of the wizards fussing around with the exact positioning of the mirror.  
  
"Almost, sir," said that wizard, in a mutter. Harry had seen this wizard, Nathaniel Splinter, before. He seemed to resent Turnus. Harry wondered if Splinter had done some work on the Lightfinder that Turnus had stolen or claimed as his own.  
  
"Good, good," said Turnus, but he waited until the mirror was perfectly in place, and then went over and adjusted it himself, before he faced the crowd and cast the _Sonorus._ Harry flung back his hood so everyone could see him and gave a little wave.  
  
"As all of you know," Turnus announced grandly, "Mr. Harry Potter has agreed to be our first test subject for the Lightfinder. This is a miraculous device that will tell us the _exact_ amount of Light or Darkness in a wizard's magic, and the intensity of his power, and the corruption of his soul, and that means..."  
  
Harry let his attention wander. He already knew all this about the Lightfinder, and didn't need to hear it again.  
  
His gaze caught on a small group of cloaked and hooded wizards near the stage. They wore silver masks, he saw, when one turned his head. Harry's eyes narrowed. He wondered if Kingsley had been wrong after all about no more Death Eaters trying to take over where Voldemort had left off.  
  
"And that means that Harry Potter has graciously volunteered to go into the Lightfinder, to show you how it's done!"  
  
No time to worry about Death Eaters, then. Harry doubted they would think to attack in a place as public as this, anyway. He nodded jauntily to whoever was behind those masks, and then turned and stepped up onto the tiny platform mounted behind the altar with the stone.  
  
He settled his hands into the indentations, with Turnus fussing around him as if this was an enormously complicated process that Harry would somehow mess up. Harry gave the crowd another smile and tried to listen as patiently as possible to Turnus.  
  
"Make sure the mirror can see you...can reflect you...the stone needs to be under your chin..."  
  
Harry moved his head forwards a little and flapped his eyebrows at the crowd. Several people laughed. If that would disrupt the Lightfinder, Turnus didn't appear to notice, although Splinter, standing over to the side, scowled.  
  
"There," said Turnus, and stepped back. "Now all you need to do is look down into the stone."  
  
Harry did that, his eyes tracing carefully along the smooth, glossy surface. Still he saw nothing that would mar it. He wondered if a flash of light would come out of the surface to take his picture like a camera.  
  
Nothing so visible, he realized a moment later. There was a pull, like someone gripping the skin of his cheeks and tugging. Before Harry could even raise his hands from the places they were supposed to stay to object, the sensation stopped, and a flash of light did cut the air as the aura around his body became visible.  
  
Harry heard the gasps, the growing screams, before he turned around and looked at himself in the mirror.  
  
But that still didn't prepare him for what he saw.  
  
The aura surrounding his body was a deep, royal _blue,_ tinted with black at the edges.  
  
*  
  
"Draco? What does this mean? Draco?"  
  
It was Pansy's voice, harsh and insistent in his ear. Draco half-shook his head, unable to take his eyes from Potter glowing like a supernova, his face sweating behind the silver mask that allowed him to appear in public unmolested.  
  
But he didn't shake his head because he didn't know the answer to her question. He did, and he used the growing shrieks of the mob to cover his voice as he turned and whispered to her.  
  
"It means we might have a chance, after all."  
  



	2. Lethe

Harry sat with his head between his hands in the isolation room at St. Mungo’s. Now and then, someone yelled or yelped off in the distance, but their voices were immediately folded into the fierce murmur of arguments between Healers and Ministry flunkies and Unspeakables and Aurors and all the other people who had come flooding onto the stage a scant moment after the Lightfinder found—  
  
 _My Darkness?_  
  
Harry shifted uneasily, not looking up. He supposed he should have remembered casting the Unforgivables, but he hadn’t thought it would taint him  _that_ much. Maybe enough to turn his aura green.  
  
Not blue. Not fading out so close to other dark colors at the edges. He must be more tainted than he knew. Was this about having the kind of hatred that had let him cast the Cruciatus Curse? Or maybe it was because he had cast the Cruciatus Curse without thinking about it much, on someone who had spat at McGonagall.  
  
He didn’t know, and as he shuddered and the door opened, he didn’t know if he would find out.  
  
“Mr. Potter.”  
  
Harry looked up. The voice sounded only a little familiar, and that was surprising. He had thought they would send Kingsley in to talk to him.  
  
But instead, it was Nathaniel Splinter, the resentful wizard who had helped set up the Lightfinder. He came to a stop inside the door and stared at Harry with cold grey eyes, looking as uncomfortable as Harry felt. A second later, he edged to the side and used his wand to slide a chair forwards from against the wall, sitting down in it as if he wanted to spring up at any second.  
  
“Listen, Potter,” he said. “You have to be wondering how Dark you are right now, and what the Lightfinder picked up on.”  
  
Since that was exactly what Harry was wondering, he nodded a little, eyes fastened on Splinter as he shifted among several different positions, none of which seemed to affect the stick he had up his arse.  
  
“The problem is, they’re not going to tell you,” said Splinter, jerking his head out the door. He seemed to realize it was open then, and spelled it shut. The loud voices got a little quieter. “They don’t know the exact limitations of the Lightfinder. They don’t know enough  _about_ it.” His voice was as sour now as some of Dumbledore’s lemon sweets. “But I do, and I know that you have a taint on your soul.” He peered at Harry. “Not the kind that comes from casting some Dark Arts, either.”  
  
Harry stiffened, and from the faint smile Splinter gave him, he hadn’t missed it. But Harry didn’t know how he could possibly tell anyone about the Horcruxes, so he played as dumb as he could. “But what else is there? Besides murder and torture. And I only tortured people through spells.”  
  
“ _Only_ ,” said Splinter, in a mocking way. “Some of us managed to avoid that even during the war, you know.”  
  
Harry folded his arms and stared him down. “You won’t convince me to cooperate with you if you keep picking at me like that.”  
  
“Fuck, you’re right,” said Splinter, and ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”  
  
Harry blinked and nodded, and waited. There had to be some reason Splinter had come to talk to him, and from the way he was acting, it wasn’t with the blessing of his superiors. Harry hoped that he wasn’t about to be caught up in some Ministry intrigue. He knew that the taint on his soul meant his actions were fairly straightforward: he had to atone, somehow. The Healers and the rest of them were arguing about the Lightfinder, whether it was right, and the impact on society, not what Harry had to do.  
  
Splinter took a deep breath and spoke the words all at once. Harry thought at first he’d mistaken what Splinter said because he wanted it to be true so much. “I know a way to remove the Darkness from your magical core.”  
  
Harry sat straight up. He could feel his lips tingling as though he’d bitten into a gooseberry. “You know that?” he demanded in a hushed tone. “Then why haven’t you told other people? Kingsley didn’t tell  _me._ That would have been all over the papers the minute someone started talking about the Lightfinder!”  
  
“Hush, okay?” Splinter darted a nervous glance over his shoulder at the door. “We haven’t told anyone because—well, we’re not sure that this is going to work. But I did most of the enchantments that make the Lightfinder function. Not that Tumnus wants to give me credit for my work, the bastard.”  
  
 _So I was right._ “Fine, but what is this thing? How does it work? What’s it called?”  
  
“It’s called,” said Splinter, sitting up and pronouncing the words as carefully as though Harry might need to put them in a Pensieve to use in a trial someday, “Lethe.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Like the river that makes you forget everything?”  
  
Splinter nodded, seeming a bit annoyed. Perhaps he had wanted to explain the origin of the name to Harry himself. “Yes. Exactly like that.”  
  
Harry thought about it. It wasn’t a very encouraging name. “What does it do?”  
  
“It scrubs your magical core of the Darkness. Your soul of the taint.” Splinter gestured insistently with one hand, which fluttered down to land on his knee like a bird. “It’s really nothing more than the same principles that make the Lightfinder work, except they’ve been turned backwards in Lethe. It makes your core forget the Darkness that infected it.”  
  
Harry hesitated. “Would I forget casting the Unforgivables and—and doing whatever else made my core that Dark?” It was probably best to let Splinter assume it was something Harry had done, rather than something done to him.  
  
Splinter shook his head, eyes intense. “The memories remain to you. But memories have been proven to play no part in influencing your magical core. The taint is gone. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course, I can’t promise what will happen if you go out and commit those same acts all over again.”  
  
“I have no intention of ever doing anything like that again,” Harry said fervently. “So. Can we go and do this?”  
  
“That’s the hard part.” Splinter sat back and regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Lethe hasn’t received as much testing as the Lightfinder, because they’re more interested in finding Dark wizards than curing them.” Harry had to smile a little. Yes, that sounded like the Ministry. “It needs some more testing before it’s safe, and some more publicity. Now that everyone’s seen you have a Dark core, they won’t understand if it just disappears. I was hoping you could help me tell people about it and promote it, because you want to undergo the testing.”  
  
Harry hesitated once. It was the kind of work that he wasn’t very enthusiastic about doing, because he didn’t like to use the power of his name and because he didn’t like public attention.  
  
On the other hand, he had gone along with Kingsley’s silly request to test the Lightfinder in public, and look where  _that_ had got him.  
  
He nodded, his mind made up. “Do I have to contact you secretly? Or will the Ministry let us meet and talk about this?”  
  
“They’ll let you speak to me in public if you’re confident enough,” said Splinter. “Right now, they don’t know what to do with you. I listened to their conversation out there.” He jerked his head at the door, his ragged hair flying. “They want this never to have happened, but they don’t know what to  _do_.”  
  
Harry snorted. And that also sounded like the Ministry. “Then I’ll go out there and tell them that I want to help you test Lethe.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Splinter, standing up with his eyes glowing. “ _Thank_ you. I promise that we’ll make this safe before we test it on you, and then lots of other people will see that they can be cured of their Darkness, too, and the Lightfinder isn’t a death sentence.”  
  
Harry nodded absently. He was starting to wonder about some of the things that the  _Daily Prophet_ had discussed. The reporters had babbled excitedly about how, now that the Ministry would  _know_ who was Dark and who was Light, Dark wizards could be given extra prison sentences, kept out of Hogwarts, put in a special isolation ward at St. Mungo’s, and so on.  
  
Harry hadn’t thought about it much at the time because it seemed so distant, so unlikely to happen, so silly.  
  
But now that it might be going to happen to  _him_ , he was thinking about it.  
  
*  
  
Draco sat in silence before the fireplace in his room for a long, long time, thinking about how to write a letter to Potter.  
  
Two years ago, this wouldn’t have troubled him. He would have just scribbled down his demands, attached them to an owl, and sent the owl on its way. If he had even thought it worthwhile to appeal to Potter at all, that was.  
  
But now, with the Manor taken from his family, with his father in prison, with the money he had counted on cut off, and the papers threatening consequences for testing Dark the way Draco knew he would…  
  
Potter might be capable of turning public opinion around if he was going to appear as a Dark wizard. It would be a contest between the wizarding world’s frantic hatred of the Dark and their love of their Savior, but Draco thought it at least a better chance than any he’d seen so far of someday having a normal life again.  
  
The door opened, and Draco started, gripping his wand. Pansy stepped inside and shut the door behind her, shaking her head.  
  
“Astoria just got back from the Ministry,” she murmured. “They said they were willing to put her name at the bottom of the list since her family didn’t actually harm anyone during the war, but they were going to test her just the same.”  
  
“Shit,” Draco whispered, appalled. He and Pansy had been hiding in this little house--a gift to Astoria years ago from a wealthy aunt--since Pansy had been sentenced  _in absentia_ for wanting to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord during the war and Draco had become homeless and penniless and his mother had vanished Merlin knew where. They had thought they’d be safe here, at least until they could scrape up enough money to leave the country. The Greengrasses had been Slytherins but not Death Eaters, and no one outside Draco’s small circle of friends knew that his parents had talked about him marrying Astoria someday.  
  
But Astoria was still Dark, and if she went in front of the Lightfinder and the restrictions they were talking about actually happened…  
  
They would lose even this modest sanctuary.  
  
That decided Draco, as nothing else could have done. He felt himself sitting up in his chair, and Pansy, who always huddled lately as if to hide the height she had once been so proud of, eyed him curiously. Draco nodded to her.  
  
“I think we have to do this,” Draco told her. “I know it’s humiliating, but it’s less humiliating than running from place to place for the rest of our lives.”  
  
“That might not happen,” said Pansy, her face breaking out in the hectic flush that meant she was nervous. “The  _Daily Prophet_ always reports whatever it thinks makes a good story, but that doesn’t mean they’re actually going to strip everything away from Astoria.”  
  
“I know,” said Draco. “But do you want to spend the rest of your life in some secret room in her house?”  
  
Pansy closed her eyes. “No.”  
  
Draco nodded. “I don’t either. Even if I married her.” And he thought marrying Astoria was probably out of the question now, since her family wouldn’t want her allied with such a political liability. He wondered if Astoria was relieved about that or not. He didn’t know her all that well.  
  
“I just don’t think that writing to Potter is going to solve the problem,” Pansy said abruptly. “He hates you, he hates me, he hates everyone he might be able to help. He’ll probably just say that he’s not like all those  _other_ Dark wizards, and people will focus more on you and your escape from justice.”  
  
Her voice was scathing on those last words, and Draco couldn’t help giving her a grateful look. He had complied with the regulations the Ministry had forced on him, since he’d had no choice, but evidently they wanted him to spend all his time hovering in Diagon Alley looking pathetic. The minute he had Apparated away from the Ministry, the  _Daily Prophet_ had started trumpeting that it was an “escape,” and that story had been front-page news every day until they started talking about the Lightfinder.  
  
Draco had been willing to go into hiding at first, to escape the publicity. And Pansy was with him, and Blaise knew where he was, and while Draco hadn’t had time to tell his mother, he was confident she could figure it out. Astoria’s house didn’t have the luxury of the Manor, but it was dry and warm, with books and good food and house-elves.  
  
But now…  
  
When he thought of that blue-black aura shining around Potter’s body, Draco didn’t want to stay hidden. In a world where the Savior could look like that, Draco thought he ought to be able to demand more. They wouldn’t lock up Potter, would they? Or they could try, but with the insane way the public’s opinion swung back and forth on him, he was just as likely to be out tomorrow. Draco thought that talking to him was at least a plan with sense behind it.  
  
Someone knocked on the door. Draco tensed up, and Pansy reached for her wand. But it was Astoria who flung it open and stepped inside a second later. She sounded winded when she talked.  
  
“Draco. You  _have_ to see this.”  
  
Draco exchanged a glance with Pansy when he realized that Astoria was carrying a newspaper in her hand, but Pansy only shook her head. Draco took the paper from her and held it so that Pansy could read over his shoulder.  
  
It wasn’t the  _Daily Prophet_ after all, but the  _Daily Hunter,_ a paper started after the war, with a logo of a stalking nundu after prey. The photograph on the front page was the familiar one of Potter standing in front of the Lightfinder, his aura surrounding him, but the headline was news.  
  
 _POTTER TO RID HIMSELF OF DARKNESS!_  
  
And there was an article beneath that that Draco skimmed fast, enough to read about Potter and Splinter and a machine called Lethe that would pare away the Darkness in someone’s core somehow. It made Draco’s chest cold to read about it.  
  
He handed the newspaper to Pansy when he was done with it, since she always liked to read depressing things in more detail than he did, and leaned back with his hands over his face, taking deep breaths. He didn’t think for one moment that even if a cure for Dark wizards existed, he and Pansy would be allowed to take it. Either it would be expensive, or they would be arrested the minute they appeared.  
  
And Draco wasn’t sure that he wanted to do it, anyway. He was a Dark wizard, and it was because of the affinity he had for Dark Arts, not what he had actually done. That was the way it was.  
  
On the other hand, if Potter took the cure, there would be no way to convince him to fight for their rights. He wouldn’t be a Dark wizard if he could pop into some machine like the Lightfinder and get the Darkness cut or burned or whatever out of his magical core. One thing Draco had noticed was that the article was fairly vague on what exactly Lethe was.  
  
“What are we going to do?”  
  
Pansy’s voice was dull, and it roused Draco like few things could have. He turned around and took her hand, staring sternly into her eyes. “We’re going to write to Potter, and we’re going to show him that he has people to save and protect,” he said.  
  
Pansy’s face spasmed, and she looked away. “He won’t want to save and protect me.”  
  
“You know those newspaper stories about Potter going into the Forbidden Forest and dying? Well, surviving the Killing Curse a second time?” Draco still wasn’t sure why that had happened, but he was sure it had. Potter had given interviews about it, and the stories were remarkably consistent from source to source.  
  
And more, Draco had an eyewitness in his mother, who had told him that she thought Potter had walked into the clearing where the Dark Lord stood not expecting to survive. An excellent observer, his mother.  
  
“What about them?” Pansy gave him another look from eyes as flat as a doll’s.  
  
“He did it for everyone,” said Draco. “Everyone in the school. Or the wizarding world, take your pick. That includes people like us that he doesn’t like a lot and people like his fans that he doesn’t know at all. We’d still have to persuade him to help us because he doesn’t like us and he wants to stop being a Dark wizard, but at least we know that he might do it because he did it once before.”  
  
“Let me get this straight,” said Pansy, and Draco was glad to see some life return to her face even if it wasn’t with the tone of voice he would have preferred. “Potter is going to save us because he’s a hero.”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco.  
  
“The hero that all through school, you insisted he wasn’t.” Draco would have said something, but Pansy took a breath and went on. “And he’s going to do it through the special treatment that you insisted he didn’t deserve.”  
  
Draco scowled at the floor.  
  
“I can’t heeeeear you,” Pansy crooned, cupping one hand around her ear.  
  
“I said that yes, those are exactly the reasons that I’m depending on him to save us,” Draco snapped, and turned back to composing his letter, ignoring her cackle. At least she was in a better mood now, and that was something to treasure.  
  
Draco wanted to save himself. He wanted, if at all possible, his old life back, and to live freely in the wizarding world. He wasn’t going to crouch in a tiny room for the rest of his life. He could live hundreds of years, how could he do that?   
  
But he also wanted Pansy safe. And Blaise, who was still in the public eye and living in his own house but receiving more and more attention from the agents of the Ministry every day. And Astoria, who had taken a great risk for them and lingered now by the door with her knuckles in her mouth, eyes watching his every move.  
  
In the end, he thought that might be why Potter would help him, if he decided to. Maybe he would be less sympathetic to Draco’s love for his family since he’d never had parents and had been enemies with Draco’s father, but he would understand the desire to protect his friends.  
  
Draco hoped so, anyway.  
  
*  
  
Harry sank wearily into a chair. After a moment, he managed to wave his wand and cast the spell that would start the fire. Then he leaned back and stared at the deep purples and reds of the overstuffed furniture swallowing all the light in this room of Grimmauld Place.  
  
He had moved to Grimmauld Place the day after the debacle with the Lightfinder and the official proclamation that he was Dark. Harry knew Kingsley had made the proclamation reluctantly, but he had to. Anyone who went through the Lightfinder had to be designated Light or Dark, and there was no ignoring the way Harry’s aura had appeared around him.  
  
Anyway, predictably, a couple of his neighbors had said that they felt uncomfortable with Harry living next to them. And Kingsley knew he had another house and suggested he go to that. And even Splinter had said that maybe Harry would feel better with Dark surroundings, in a house owned by a family who had practically reveled in the taint on their souls.  
  
 _He’s trying to help,_ Harry reminded himself about Splinter as he shut his eyes.  _He’s just tactless sometimes._  
  
It had been almost a week since Splinter had approached him to start working on Lethe, two days since they’d gone public outside the Ministry. Harry thought he must have answered every variation of the question, “But you’re Dark, why would you want to be Light?” under the sun.   
  
He had been unwise enough to answer one version with, “Well, why wouldn’t I? Being Light is better, and I won’t get locked up that way.”  
  
The reporter had been whisked away while Aurors and Unspeakables descended on the crowd, and Kingsley had explained tersely to Harry afterwards that he didn’t want Harry fueling the rumors about Dark wizards being locked up and having all their possessions taken away. They would simply be isolated for a time while the best course of action was decided on.  
  
 _Right,_ Harry thought, and felt about three thousand years old in terms of cynicism.   
  
He really shouldn’t. The Ministry had been a lot better to him since the war, hadn’t demanded much of him, and Kingsley was a friend. And if all went as well as Splinter said it should, now that they had donations pouring in for Lethe, Harry ought to be free of his Darkness in a few months’ time, anyway. The instant he was done in Lethe, Kingsley had promised, he could have another test in front of the Lightfinder. This time, Kingsley was sure he would blaze red.  
  
 _But that’s what he thought the first time, too._  
  
Harry sighed. His thoughts went round and round, blaming the Ministry, excusing them, blaming and excusing himself, wondering if he was evil, wondering if Voldemort had left such a taint on him that he would never be clean again, wanting to be free, wanting to leave everyone who said that he was evil far behind. He wouldn’t get much rest tonight if he let the whirl start up again.  
  
He was just standing to go to bed when an owl hooted next to him. Harry started and turned around. He was sure that he had enchantments on the walls strong enough to hold back any owl who wanted to get through.  
  
But this one hopped confidently up to him and presented the letter. Harry glared at it suspiciously, then cast the necessary detection spells on the letter. Nothing appeared dangerous, even the one he specifically cast for bubotuber pus.  
  
Then he carefully opened the letter, and stared at it.  
  
 _Potter._  
  
 _I’m writing to ask you not to go into Lethe and cleanse yourself just yet. I know that you don’t want to hear it, but you could be a powerful fighter for Dark wizards’ rights if you spoke up and asked people to treat them well. I have friends in danger, along with myself, and I really want to meet with you._  
  
 _Draco Malfoy._  
  
The world, Harry abruptly decided, was utterly crazy, and he was going to go to bed and only deal with this in the morning.  
  
No matter  _how_ much the owl hopped up and down next to him and hooted pathetically for attention. 


	3. Writing Back

The problem with going to bed and trying to forget about Malfoy’s letter, Harry discovered, was that the letter was still there when he got up the next morning. And so was Malfoy’s owl, standing asleep on the perch in the corner that Harry would have got rid of if not for Pig.  
  
Harry scowled and went to make toast and tea, his usual breakfast, shaking his head. He didn’t understand how Malfoy’s owl had got to him when his wards should have prevented it.  
  
Then he remembered something, and nearly groaned aloud.  _Right._ The house was still open to someone of Black blood, as they had discovered when they started repairing the wards after the war. They were just lucky that Bellatrix had never found her way to Grimmauld Place when she was still alive; she could have walked right in.  
  
And it was the same thing with Malfoy’s owl, since he had the bad taste to have a Black mother. Harry scowled at the bird, and it opened its eyes and hooted at him.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, you stupid bird,” Harry muttered, and he set the tea to boiling and went over to scribble a rough reply on the back of Malfoy’s letter. There was plenty of room, since the actual letter was so short, and he didn’t want to go and find more parchment and ink.   
  
 _Malfoy,_  
  
 _I don’t know what you mean, and I don’t think I really want to know. What I know is that I tested Dark because I’ve done some reprehensible things, and they’re trying to cure me with the Lethe. If you don’t want to go through the test and the cure, don’t. But I want to be free of this taint that I inflicted on myself._  
  
He didn’t bother signing it; surely Malfoy would know who it came from. And the owl swooped over and snatched it from his fingers and flew merrily through the open window before he could write more, anyway.  
  
Harry watched it go, sighed massively, and turned back to his breakfast. He was due for another interview at eleven today; the testing Lethe was going through was in part a requirement for attuning it to his soul and magical core. But they needed the information about his past and memories and preferences and all the rest if they were going to attune it to him.  
  
 _And what are you going to do about the fact that you refuse to talk about the Horcrux?_  
  
Harry hunched his shoulders. He was trying to gather up the courage to talk about it, honestly he was. The problem was that he didn’t know who might take that knowledge and think it was a great idea to make some more Horcruxes and try to become immortal. The Department of Mysteries, along with the Ministry in general, was full of the people who had come up with machines like the Lightfinder and Lethe, after all.  
  
Harry paused a second later, shocked at himself.  _You mean, the people who came up with the machine that’s going to help you and the one that let you know you had a problem in the first place?_  
  
He swallowed a bit of toast that tasted ashy, his breath quick and shallow. Splinter had warned him that he might have thoughts like this, ones that told him there was nothing wrong with being Dark and resenting the very existence of the Lightfinder and Lethe. It was a little harder to resist them, Splinter had said. It must be much harder than Harry had thought. He nearly hadn’t noticed that one.  
  
Apparently Dark wizards had intrusive thoughts telling them that things were okay or wrong all the time, things that ordinary people would see as evil or normal, and that was one reason they went ahead with their crimes.  
  
Harry’s hands shook as he put away the breakfast dishes and went in to have a shower. He had thought of himself as an unfortunate victim up until this point, someone with a tainted magical core that really didn’t want to have it.  
  
But what if part of him was the same as the wizards who had killed his parents and his godfather and Cedric and Fred and so many others? What if he became like them because he wasn’t taking the danger seriously enough?  
  
Harry decided he wanted to go to the interview early. He had some questions of his own to ask, as well as answer.  
  
*  
  
Draco dipped his toast in a pool of melted butter and deliberately ate it, eyes fastened on the words that Potter had written back to him.  
  
“Let me guess. He refused.”  
  
Draco didn’t bother acknowledging Pansy verbally, but did hand her the letter. She picked it up and read it through, then began to bite one of her nails as she flung the letter on the table. A moment later, she was stalking back and forth in Astoria’s dining room, the biggest room in the house.   
  
 _And the dimmest,_ Draco thought with a frown, and added more wood to the fire blazing directly behind him.  
  
“What are we going to  _do_?” Pansy moaned, burying her head in her hands.  
  
“Not succumb to despair, for one thing,” said Draco, and hid a smile as she glared at him. Pansy angry was always easier to deal with than Pansy weak and curling up around her stomach and feeling sorry for herself.   
  
“Yes, because that’s a  _plan_ ,” said Pansy, and folded her arms. “What exactly do you think we should do, now that Potter refused your flattering invitation?”  
  
Draco smiled at her. “The kind of thing he would expect Dark wizards to do. It’s not like we’re going to damage our reputation further with either him or the Ministry.”  
  
Pansy stared at him mistrustfully. “And you think kidnapping him or killing him would accomplish—what, exactly?”  
  
Draco had to laugh this time, and never mind the way she bristled up like a wet Kneazle. “Not  _that_. What a limited view of Dark wizards you  _do_ have. No, we’re going to make sure that he knows some of the blackmail material we have on hand.”  
  
“I must have another limited view of Dark wizards, because I don’t know that we have any blackmail material on Potter.” Pansy put her hands on her hips and regarded him expectantly.  
  
“We have rumors at our disposal that we can spread,” Draco said. “The general public is set to go off like a whole forest full of dead tinder, you know that. All we have to do is start circulating rumors that Potter practices secret Dark rituals or something, and they’d flare up against him.”  
  
“But that would ultimately hurt us,” said Pansy. “They would only start hunting Dark wizards even more strongly then.”  
  
“That’s why I really don’t want to do it,” Draco admitted. “But I can hold the threat in reserve over Potter’s head.”  
  
“What else?” Pansy looked fascinated when Draco reached down and laid a hand against his chest, over his heart.  
  
“There’s also the secret Dark spell that Potter attacked me with in the bathroom at Hogwarts,” said Draco.  
  
“Are they going to care about him cursing someone who’s a fugitive?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” said Draco. He’d read the newspaper articles in more detail than Pansy, at least at the beginning of this whole stupidity; he skimmed them more often now because of how often they repeated each other. “Especially, like I said, if the rumors don’t seem to come from me, but from someone else who’s still in good standing. They’re rabid for any notion of wrongdoing, any of this taint on the soul business. Did you notice how much they’re digging up about the Unforgivable Curses that Potter used during the war? It doesn’t matter that he mostly used them on Death Eaters. And I think Potter himself is afraid.” Draco tapped the letter he’d got back. “Otherwise, he would have at least agreed to meet with me, if he was fighting for the Light or if he was curious or reacting normally. Or he would have reported the letter to someone else.”  
  
“You think he didn’t?”  
  
“I think the fact that no one tracked the owl back speaks for itself.”  
  
Pansy sank against the wall, gnawing on her lip contemplatively. “You’re putting an awful lot of trust in inferences that you’re picking up from—what? The shape of the letters? Your knowledge of Potter’s psychology?”  
  
“Hope,” Draco said softly. “And all of that.” He caught her eye. “If they can accuse  _him_  and bring him down, Pansy, then what chance do the rest of us have? I’m fighting a battle that might be doomed, but I can’t not fight it. And I think he’s still our best chance.”  
  
“If he’s so vulnerable to blackmail, then I don’t see why.”  
  
“If he would stand up and  _fight_ for once, if he had someone at his side who knows how to manipulate newspaper people, then he’d be doing a lot better.” Draco moved a hand impatiently. “He would swing people back to his side. He could make a difference in the Ministry just blindly using the Lightfinder and the rest of the sheep as blindly trusting them.”  
  
“You hope.”  
  
“Yes, all of that.” Draco clenched his hands on his lap to keep from shouting at her. “I think we  _might_ do this. Do you have a better idea?”  
  
“No,” said Pansy, after a long minute of thinking.  
  
Draco softened, and stood up to catch her hand and kiss it. “I know you would tell me if you did,” he whispered. “It’s—frustrating. I know that. But we have to do what we can to make it less frustrating. It won’t do any good if we give up and sit here waiting for them to capture us.”  
  
It took a long moment, but Pansy finally nodded with her eyelids drooping over her eyes and made some soft, subtle noise that sounded like, “I know.”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t know, Harry.”  
  
Harry looked in a little pity at Hermione, who was sitting bent over another list of interview questions. He’d spent almost an hour talking about his childhood and his favorite colors and his Sorting into Gryffindor—that had really interested the note-takers, who thought the Hat’s longing to Sort him into Slytherin could be an early sign of Dark tendencies—and his favorite clothes and his relationship with Ginny. Now he and Hermione had a brief thirty minutes for lunch, and to prepare for the next interview. And as a gesture of trust, the room they were in didn’t have any enchantments to prevent him from getting out, except a simple shield on the door that would warn them if anyone used Dark spells inside these four walls. And there were no listening spells, either.  
  
That was why Harry had dared to ask Hermione if she thought he should tell people about Horcruxes.  
  
But she looked up now, and her face was nearly as bleak and bare as the stone walls behind her, which bore no decorations of any kind that could be harmed or turned into weapons. “It’s such a risk,” she whispered. “But what they’re doing to you is horrendous, too. If they could understand the most likely reason that you have a tainted soul…wouldn’t it be worth it?”  
  
Harry sighed and kicked a little, then poked at the cheese sandwich in front of him. Lunch was always cheese sandwiches, because Splinter was the only one who volunteered to come into contact with Harry on a regular basis, and he didn’t know how to cook much. “I was the one who volunteered for the Lightfinder, Hermione. I’m the one volunteering for Lethe. How can it be horrendous if I agreed to let them do it to me?”  
  
Hermione’s mouth tightened. Then she said in an even tighter voice, “What if you agreed, but other people don’t?”  
  
Harry blinked at her in surprise. “I don’t think they would want to put someone unwilling through Lethe. It would mess up their results, Splinter said.”  
  
“What results do they have right now?” Hermione gestured violently enough to almost spill the glass of water on the tray they’d brought Harry. “They don’t have  _anything!_  And you’re going along with them and this thing that could be a horrible mistake!” She rose to her feet and circled around the table towards Harry, who stared at her. He hadn’t thought she would oppose his going into Lethe when she had gone along with it so far.  
  
But now Hermione bent down in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders with tears in her eyes. “Harry,  _please_ don’t do this. You won’t know what it really does until they test it—and they can test it all they like on magical illusions and so on, but you know  _they don’t have souls_. They’re going to make you the first one to do this again, the only one who should, the way they acted like you were the only one who should fight Voldemort!” She spat a piece of hair out of the corner of her mouth and went on. “They don’t know what will happen! They don’t know anything about what the Lightfinder really shows, either!”  
  
“They know it shows the taint on the soul!” Harry snapped, and grabbed one of her hands and moved it off his shoulder. It was hurting him. “And you have better reason than almost anyone to know why I should have a taint there!”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes and stood there for a second, panting. Then she opened them again, and Harry flinched back from her gaze.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “You were refusing some of their requests right after the war, even the ones Kingsley made. You were thinking for yourself. You weren’t just doing what they wanted. And then you went into the Lightfinder, and since then you’ve been more scared of yourself than they are. Why?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. “I think I’m—turning into a Darker wizard.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Splinter told me I would get thoughts,” said Harry, looking away from her. “Thoughts about not trusting him, backing away from the Lightfinder and Lethe, and that they would get into my head and not let me rest. That started happening this morning.”  
  
“Those thoughts are just the results of your good sense returning,” Hermione snapped.  
  
Harry said nothing, in misery. He was scared, that was the thing. He knew Hermione might not understand why, she might think that he couldn’t be afraid just like so many people in the wizarding world did, but Harry knew better. He was afraid because he had done all those things, and so many of them were things he couldn’t control—like having the Horcrux attached to his soul—or had done on impulse, like casting the Cruciatus.  
  
He had enough hatred and rage in his soul to cast the Unforgivables. He needed  _something_ to heal that.  
  
“You’re afraid.”  
  
Harry glanced up at Hermione with eyes that he knew were dull, and nodded. “Got it in one.”  
  
Hermione folded her arms. “You can’t make decisions like this out of fear, Harry. Even if the person you’re afraid of is yourself. Otherwise, you’ll start running around and making bad choices just like the people who were afraid of Voldemort did.”  
  
Someone knocked on the door of the bare little room. The second interview was due to begin in a few minutes. Harry sighed, gulped down most of what remained of the water and the sandwich—something hunger had made him an expert in—and hugged Hermione.  
  
“I need to be free of the fear,” he whispered. “I need to at least try, okay?”  
  
Hermione didn’t get the chance to respond before Harry walked out of the room. His heart pounded when he saw the grim look on Splinter’s face, and he nodded a little. “What is it?”  
  
“We placed another construct in the Lightfinder,” said Splinter. “This one had Pensieve memories of your childhood in it, and was built like you. This time, the aura was even darker, indigo.” He gave Harry a long, slow look.  
  
“It isn’t  _me,_ though,” Harry pointed out, and there was sweat behind his ears. “I haven’t done anything else since I was diagnosed!”  
  
“I know,” said Splinter. “But it does mean that we have to look at your childhood more closely. There may be reasons for you to go Dark in there that we haven’t been thinking about.” He turned and gestured Harry imperiously after him. “Come on. We have to conduct some more tests on your memories.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes in misery and followed Splinter. He didn’t know what he could do. He could rebel and run away, but then he would be hunted down as a Dark wizard and not have any kind of life. He could refuse to cooperate and just sit at home, but then he wouldn’t be accepted into the society that was his only home. He could ask for more tests, but they were already doing all sorts of tests before they used Lethe, to make sure that it was safe for him.  
  
What could he  _do_?  
  
“Potter.  _Do_  look where you’re going.”  
  
Harry started and opened his eyes. He had nearly bumped into Blaise Zabini, who stood in front of him wearing a disgruntled expression. He held up one hand and backed away a little, as though to keep a careful distance between him and Harry.  
  
“Some of us aren’t Dark, no matter what other people think, and don’t  _want_ to be infected,” he muttered.  
  
Harry stared at him unblinkingly for a long moment before he stepped past him and walked on, down the long, sloping corridor that led into the Depths of the Department of Mysteries—an alternate pathway Harry would never have found on his own. Splinter was talking about the Lightfinder and the tests that it had conducted on other people now. There were a worrying number of green auras, and not as many red ones as they’d hoped.  
  
Harry said nothing, but listened. And now and then, his hand lingered on the edge of his cloak, where Blaise’s other hand had touched him while his extended hand was commanding all Splinter’s attention.  
  
He didn’t get a chance to look at the crackling piece of paper there until hours later, when he was again at Grimmauld Place.  
  
Malfoy’s threat to tell everyone about the  _Sectumsempra_ incident would either have made Harry laugh or panic a few hours ago. Now?   
  
Now, he was wondering how soon until he could slip away from his intense regime of tests and counter-tests and meet with Malfoy.  
  
He wasted no time in sending the owl.  
  
 _This is something I can do._


	4. Backfiring

“An interesting choice of meeting place.”  
  
Draco let a few moments pass before he responded. He could use the time to make sure that his glamour was secure, and that the spells he’d raised around them to ensure silence and prevent magical eavesdropping worked.   
  
And to get used to the change in Harry Potter.  
  
Potter sat at the table in the Leaky Cauldron as if it was his one anchor to reality, his hand curled so hard around the side of the table that his knuckles looked blue instead of white. He had his eyes half-closed and his glasses off; Draco suspected he was using a charm of some kind to substitute for them. His hair was also a few shades lighter than normal, and a rakish curl stuck to the middle of his forehead, conveniently covering up the scar.  
  
Not that that was the greatest change. The carefree man Draco had seen ascending the Lightfinder’s stage a fortnight ago wouldn’t have recognized the man who sat here now.  
  
Potter opened his eyes fully, and Draco raised one more extra layer of protections. Potter was probably right that people wouldn’t recognize him without the iconic scar and glasses, but those eyes still seemed, at least to Draco, to bespeak only one person.  
  
“I thought you would have me come wherever you’re hiding,” Potter continued. Draco opened his mouth to excoriate him for that stupidity, but then Potter surprised him. “And then  _Obliviate_ me if I didn’t prove cooperative.”  
  
Draco waved a hand for a drink instead of responding right away. He finally said, when he had a mug of butterbeer firmly in hand and it became obvious that Potter wouldn’t ask for anything other than the crumb-covered plate in front of him, “I’m surprised that you also agreed to meet with me. Someone you dislike, someone hunted by the majority of the wizarding world.” He paused, because he wanted to watch Potter’s face when he said this. “A Dark wizard.”  
  
“Let’s say that I think about that a little differently than I did a few weeks ago.”  
  
Draco took an abrupt sip of butterbeer. He would probably show too much glee if he didn’t, and the last thing he wanted was Potter walking away when he had done most of the work  _himself_ to get him into the perfect place to take the bait.   
  
“Oh? Why?” Draco asked neutrally.  
  
“You know why.” Potter rubbed his scar and continued speaking in a low, rambling murmur that sounded like the running of water. “I thought it was all my fault. That casting the Unforgivables and being connected to Voldemort the way I was, I sort of deserved it. That I was Dark, and that meant I had to be punished. How long would I have gone without knowing it if I’d just been walking around people and corrupting them? It was for the best. And if I could get rid of it, even better.”  
  
Draco held his tongue. After all, Potter had used the past tense.  
  
Potter turned around and stared at Draco. His eyes had a frantic glaze that told Draco all he needed to know about why Potter had accepted his invitation. “But then I realized that there was no way I could trust anyone else to have the answers, either. There are things they don’t know and I can’t tell them.” Draco made a mental note. “And there were these  _thoughts_ coming into my head. I thought they meant I was a Dark wizard, but it could mean anything. And Splinter hasn’t even been tested in the Lightfinder yet.” Potter laughed, and the sound crackled at the edges. “How do I know that he isn’t Dark himself?”  
  
Draco nodded. So Potter was here for his own self-interest rather than because he wanted to help anyone else or thought there was something fundamentally wrong in the wizarding world, but that was okay. Draco could work with that.  
  
“I’m not offering you some kind of cure,” Draco said carefully. “That’s the first thing you have to understand, Potter. Even if you work with me, there’s no way out of being a Dark wizard.”  
  
“You must not think it’s a bad thing, or you would be trying to get rid of it.” Potter leaned forwards and stared at Draco. “What does it mean? Are you only Dark because you cast curses during the war, or what?”  
  
Draco relaxed completely. Even with Potter desperate, he was behaving exactly as Draco had hoped he would, giving Draco openings to explain. That meant he  _could_ achieve some of what he wanted without having to use blackmail.  
  
Draco would do it if he had to, of course. But he would prefer not to. Potter wouldn’t fight his best for them if he was being coerced to do it.  
  
“It means that you have an affinity for certain kinds of spells,” Draco said. “People in our world have given those spells names. Light Arts, Dark Arts, Shadow Arts.” Potter’s mouth shaped a silent question, but he didn’t ask it, and Draco went on. “Or Healing Arts and Dream Arts and Defense, to name other categories. It all depends on what kind of magic one casts. Some spells from one category overlap into the others.”  
  
“But the Unforgivables can’t be anything like Defense,” Potter protested.  
  
“No,” Draco admitted easily. “But not that many spells are like the Unforgivables, either, Potter. They’re the most extreme examples of their type. Would you say that something like the Shield Charm could never be used for Dark purposes?”  
  
Potter opened his mouth, then closed it again and tapped his fingers on the table. “I suppose you could use it to block healing spells from someone,” he muttered. “Or slam someone with it and knock them off a cliff.”  
  
Draco blinked. He hadn’t thought of the first use. “Yes,” he said. “So a Shield Charm is Defense, but it’s also classified as Shadow Arts because it’s hard to be absolutely, completely sure. Most of the spells that the common wizard learns are Shadow Arts, really. They’re spells that might have neutral uses, or spells that could have multiple uses. Only spells that really don’t have many different kinds of uses go into Light Arts or Dark Arts.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of any of this,” Potter said, and rubbed his head as if his scar ached. Draco froze for a second, but then realized that Potter’s hand was more on his temple, and relaxed. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”  
  
“Because we didn’t have a Defense teacher worth shit except for Professor Snape?” Draco suggested dryly. “Dark Arts and Defense are supposed to be defined in that class. There aren’t specific classes on the Shadow Arts because the category of spells is too big. And Light Arts spells take a lot of power to cast, and many wizards can’t manage them at all. Like the Patronus, for example. No room for a class like that in Hogwarts when you would have few students and they’d spend months learning to cast a single spell.”  
  
“Snape could have done something, then.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Blame the Ministry for that. There are rules for what’s supposed to be taught in a certain year. Professor Snape could bend them a little in our case, but not that much, especially when he was already being watched by people who thought he was a Death Eater.” Draco swallowed a rough lump in his throat. His feelings about Snape were…complicated. “I do believe that he was teaching some of the distinctions to the first-years, who were supposed to learn it. But he never got to stay long enough.”  
  
Potter leaned back into the shadows. “I could manage a Patronus.”  
  
“I’ll say whatever you want me to say about you being a wizard of rare power and talent,” Draco warned him, lifting a hand. “Because it’s true. But even you had to train for a while before you did it.”  
  
“It’s not true.”  
  
“You really did it the first time?” Draco couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice. Potter had been so affected by the Dementors that Draco was sure he would have used the spell before he actually did if he was capable of it.  
  
“No, about me being a wizard of rare power.” Potter leaned forwards enough that the light showed his face again, or at least the slightly altered features he had adopted for this meeting. He wore a stubborn look that Draco suspected he was soon to become familiar with. “I’m not. It wasn’t power that defeated Voldemort.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “And if we were in a normal situation where you could keep your delusions and I was just asking you to fight for me because it was the right thing to do, I wouldn’t question that. But the Lightfinder revealed how extensive your aura was. If I didn’t know that you were powerful before, I’d know it now.”  
  
Potter hunched down in misery. Draco tapped the table in front of him, making him start. “What makes you so upset about that? I’d be thrilled if it was me. It would mean I could defend myself better.”  
  
“Every time I try and defend myself, someone takes it the wrong way,” Potter said, with enough suppressed violence to make Draco stare at him. “I don’t want this. I wish that no one had ever invented the Lightfinder.”  
  
“But they did, and you went through it,” Draco said, folding his arms and looking away. He would give Potter a bit of privacy to recover himself, but he wasn’t about to put up with the reality-denying ways Gryffindors were famous for. “ _Listen._ You’re a Dark wizard. You can cast Dark Arts. You’re more powerful if you cast them than if you cast Light magic. But your power let you manage the Light spells, too, and the Shadow spells with no trouble. Do you see?”  
  
“I don’t  _want_ to be good at cruel magic.”  
  
Draco slammed his hand down on the table this time instead of tapping his fingers, and was gratified by the way that Potter almost drew his wand. “You  _idiot_. Who said that Dark Arts was all cruel magic? I already told you the way the Ministry classified them. There’s almost no ‘Light’ magic or ‘Light’ wizards because so few have the power. That doesn’t have anything to do with good or evil.” He folded his arms. “And they’re going to find almost no Light wizards, because they’re rare.”  
  
“The Lightfinder is discovering some red people.” Potter folded his arms back, nearly nudging his plate off the table with his elbow. “Splinter told me so.”  
  
Draco nodded, uncaring. “But those are mostly people who haven’t cast any spells except minor Shadow ones in their lives,  _because they can’t._  He also told you that the red auras were small, right?”  
  
Potter hesitated for the briefest moment. “Yes.”  
  
Draco spread his hands. “They don’t have the power. When they find a wizard whose red aura flares out beyond his body, be impressed. That means they’ve found a wizard with an affinity for the Light Arts  _and_ the power to cast them.”  
  
“But people with red auras do have an affinity for Light.”  
  
“Yes, but the lack of power means they would never have known it if not for the Lightfinder.” Draco snorted in bitter amusement. “They could use the Lightfinder to good purpose if they could use it on children when they were still young enough that their training hadn’t started. That way, they would know who had an affinity for what and they could train them in different ways. You’d have some powerful natural Healers and people who would do well at Defense that way.” He leaned in and stared at Potter. “But you can’t find the good and evil ones.”  
  
Potter shut his eyes tight. “I wonder if they did, with me.”  
  
“They didn’t,” Draco said, and hoped that he could restrain his impatience enough so he wouldn’t murder Potter before they got where they needed to go. “Because it finds no such thing.”  
  
“Right, you said.” Potter propped his chin on his fist, brooding. Draco was starting to wonder how his side had done so well in the war, when that was all he seemed to do. “But like I said, there are things that taint me that you can’t know anything about.”  
  
Draco ignored that. “I know from the size of your aura that you’re powerful. I know from the color that you have an affinity for the Dark Arts. What that tells me is that you can be a political ally. If we’re going to fight this…”  
  
He let his voice trail off delicately, but for once Potter was looking past him instead of at him and didn’t seem to notice. Draco was about to raise his voice and try again when Potter abruptly whipped around. His eyes were wide.  
  
“I won’t participate in a battle against my friends.”  
  
“Not that kind of battle,” Draco said. He thought he knew at least part of what Potter was afraid of, now. “Of  _course_ we aren’t going to take up arms against them. We’re only going to make sure we have the same rights as anyone else.”  
  
Potter looked at his hands. The knuckles were at least white instead of blue, now. Draco decided to take that as an improvement.  
  
Then Potter murmured, “Would you take up arms against them if that was the only way?”  
  
“Define what you mean as ‘the only way,’ Potter,” Draco snapped back at once. “If we were fighting for our lives, yes. Of course. If they were trying to execute all Dark wizards, which is the point it could reach if we’re not careful? Of course.” He eased up on his posture and considered Potter carefully. “But there’s no sign yet that it’s going to reach that stage.”  
  
Potter nodded. His breath was coming in shallow gasps. Draco sighed.  
  
“You have questions you need to ask,” he said. “So ask them.”  
  
Potter finally looked up, and Draco cocked his head. He had wondered for the past few minutes if this was such a good idea, if approaching Potter would just lead to a bloody panic attack and Potter striking out against Draco and the people Draco was trying to help.  
  
But there was a fierce weight at the bottom of Potter’s eyes, like a stone sunk in a pool, that Draco couldn’t help approving of. Maybe this  _would_ work out, after all. At least if Potter behaved like a human being who wanted to defend his own life instead of just the martyr.  
  
*  
  
“I want to know what the Dark Arts are. If they’re not cruel magic and they’re not all the Unforgivables, what are they?”  
  
Harry marveled at his own voice. It sounded like the voice of someone who had a plan and was calm and intelligent. He hadn’t known that he  _could_ still sound like that. He had thought he’d given up all hope of it when Splinter told him he was Dark.  
  
He would still be checking what Malfoy told him with Hermione, of course. It was ridiculous, at least to Harry, that they’d got all this way into their lives and Harry had never heard of these divisions of magic, while wizards reared in Death Eater families conveniently knew all about them.  
  
Malfoy considered him for a second with his face so clear and yet so closed that Harry couldn’t tell what he felt at all. Then Malfoy nodded slightly and picked up his mug. He sipped from it before putting it down and leaning intently forwards so that he could almost touch Harry’s chin with his hair.  
  
Harry steeled himself against flinching away. They needed to be confederates, or at least maybe they did if Malfoy was telling the truth and the Lightfinder hadn’t discovered evil in Harry’s soul. So they needed to sit like them, too.  
  
“They’re the spells that  _can_ have a destructive purpose,” Malfoy explained quietly. “The ones that can control someone’s will—they destroy the victim’s freedom. Curses like the Blasting Curse can be used to demolish walls, or people. And the ones that kill and torture are Dark Arts, of course.”  
  
“But  _Aurors_ use the Blasting Curse.”  
  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow that made him look a lot more cynical than he’d ever managed in school when he was  _trying_ to appear that way. “Of course they do. I told you that the distinction between the Dark Arts and the other kinds of magic is one the Ministry made up. That means they can also violate it when they want to and not emphasize that certain kinds of spells are crossing over.”  
  
Harry pushed his hand through the hair on his forehead. He saw Malfoy’s eyes dart to the scar. Maybe Malfoy was wondering if Voldemort was back when Harry touched his scar.  
  
Harry almost wished for it. It would probably be simpler than this.  
  
“Don’t people get upset about that?” Harry tried.  
  
Malfoy shrugged a little. “Some people don’t care. Our generation doesn’t have that many people who know.” He offered Harry a dark smile. “Other people think that it doesn’t matter as long it’s not Dark wizards using the spell. But you’ve got to understand, Potter.” And this time he actually reached out and took one of Harry’s hands. His own palm was damp and unpleasantly warm. Harry managed to refrain from jumping and flinching, but it was hard. “The Lightfinder can find the affinity for Dark Arts. It means that you could cast them well.  _It doesn’t mean you will_.”  
  
Harry’s stomach clenched painfully. There was the distinction the Ministry hadn’t bothered to make.  
  
But he didn’t know if it was a distinction he could trust, either. Consider the source. Meanwhile, Harry trusted Kingsley, and at least Kingsley had told him that the Lightfinder worked the way the Ministry said it did, to find good and evil.  
  
“Do you like to cast them?” he whispered, and didn’t care when his breath passed over Malfoy’s lips or Malfoy’s eyes widened.  
  
“That’s a different question again, Potter.” Malfoy shook his head a minute later. “Am I close to them? Yes. Could I cast them with power? Yes. Did I receive an—education during the war from people who thought it would be a good idea if I cast them? Yes.” His eyes met Harry’s for a moment.  
  
Harry stared back. He hadn’t thought that he would find that much empathy for what he had endured during the war in Draco Malfoy, of all people.  
  
A second later, Malfoy broke that too-understanding gaze and stared at the table. “But I don’t really want to use most of them,” he whispered. “I saw too much of what they made people suffer during the war.”  
  
“Then I don’t understand why you’re so set on fighting for the rights of Dark wizards,” Harry replied. “If you—”  
  
He gasped, because Malfoy’s hand had shifted and was clasping his tightly enough to grind some important bones together. Malfoy grimaced at him a little. “They have a way that  _does_ detect affinities now. I could lie, but I wouldn’t be believed. And I would use those spells if my life was in danger.  
  
“And I told you. It’s all about public perception.” Malfoy leaned back a little, but it didn’t lessen the charge of the small space between them. “How many people are going to be on your side, or listen to the explanation of you being closer to the Dark Arts but not evil, now that the Ministry has publically declared you someone to worry about? I could explain the technical distinctions until I was blue in the face, and no one would listen. Or at least, not enough people would listen to get me out of trouble.”  
  
“But it’s technical details that you’re hoping to have me explain!” Harry flung his free hand up. “I don’t know how I can be much help. I don’t even understand them as well as you do!”  
  
Malfoy caught his other hand and whispered, “ _Listen._ I know that you have power in your name and your history. You just have to learn how to use it.”  
  
Abruptly, Harry was sure he knew what this was about, and only the fact that Malfoy had hold of his hands prevented him from getting up and storming out of the Leaky. “So you’re going to feed me information and make me your political figurehead? Is that it?”  
  
Malfoy gave a short, sharp laugh that Harry was sure would have attracted attention if not for the spells around their table. “Haven’t you got the message, Potter? That’s what you are already. I’m trying to give you some more ability to save yourself instead of mindlessly having to go along with whatever the Ministry tells you.”  
  
Harry only gave his hand a shake in response. Malfoy still didn’t let it go. “I’m not the Ministry’s figurehead! If anything, I’m its scapegoat!”  
  
“They’re making the same use of you either way.” Malfoy shook his hands again, and Harry grimaced. It was beginning to get painful. “They’re scaring people, making them run, making them mindless sheep. See what happened to the great Harry Potter? The same thing could happen to you if you’re not careful! If we need to imprison the great Harry Potter and shepherd him around to make sure that he doesn’t come into contact with  _normal_ people, then we need to do the same thing for anyone who tests Dark!”  
  
“They’re paying more attention to me because of who I am! They wouldn’t bother you that much. Or anyone else who isn’t a Death Eater.”  
  
Malfoy’s face turned a plum color, but his voice was stronger and steadier than ever. “You think so? They’ve already told As—a friend of mine who’s been helping me that she’ll have to get tested. And her family isn’t Death Eaters, they never had anything to do with them. She was in Slytherin, that’s all.” His smile turned nasty. “I suppose you haven’t heard that they’re going to be testing the Lightfinder on the first-years getting ready to go to Hogwarts? They’ll prevent children who test Dark from boarding the train.”  
  
“That’s  _mad_.” Harry’s head felt like it was spinning. His tongue was thick, dusty, dry.  
  
Malfoy shrugged. “That’s the way things are right now. The whole world is going mad, and you could prevent it if you wanted to.” He let go of Harry’s hands and stared at him, challenging, right in the eye. “But I reckon that you don’t want to. You probably don’t care as long as it doesn’t happen to your friends.”  
  
“It’s happening to  _me_ —”  
  
“That doesn’t count, you bloody martyr.” Malfoy’s breath was hot on his cheek as he leaned in again. “You’re crumbling to the ground, whimpering that you deserve it because of all this unspecified evil in your past. You won’t stand up and  _fight_.”  
  
Harry stared at him, his mind full of children, like him, who had been raised in the Muggle world and needed Hogwarts as an escape. They needed it so  _badly_.  
  
And then they would walk into the Lightfinder, and turn out to have a magical affinity they never knew about, and they would have Hogwarts taken away from them.  
  
“Those Dark children can’t be in the school with our  _normal_ children,” Malfoy murmured, seeming to read his mind. Maybe he knew Legilimency. “They can’t pollute our  _normal_ minds. Oh, no, what are we going to do if they ruin our  _normality_?”  
  
Harry snarled, his mind full of Muggleborns being sent back to homes where their relatives would tell them smugly that of course they were freaks, that even other freaks thought so. “Fine.”  
  
“Fine what?”  
  
“I’ll do it.” Harry was the one to take Malfoy’s hand this time, and press down until he heard a warning noise. “But if you try to make me into a figurehead, you’ll find out why I have an affinity for the Dark Arts.”  
  
He didn’t expect light, of all things, to come into Malfoy’s eyes, or the look that he gave Harry.  
  
“Thank you,” Malfoy breathed. “ _Thank_ you.”  
  
Harry shrugged, a little embarrassed, and moved his hair back into place over his scar. “So what exactly is your plan for this little rebellion?”


	5. Searching for Answers

Harry was still shaking when he got home. The first thing he did was toss a handful of Floo powder into the fire.  
  
A second later, he groaned as sparkling red bars sprang to life above the flames. He had forgotten that the Ministry had warded his Floo so that he couldn’t call just anyone. Harry had accepted it at the time. Why not? He had been stunned, disbelieving, still sunk in worrying about how Dark he really was and what sort of pain he had caused that he’d never noticed. What did he care if the Ministry cut him off from contact with normal people?  
  
Now, with his eyes opened by Malfoy’s words, his gut burned. What if they did this to the children, too? Forbidden to send owls, shown the magical world and then promptly shoved back out? Or what if they used Memory Charms on them so they never remembered they’d seen anything wondrous at all?  
  
Harry swore furiously to himself and began to pace. He could break the wards without much problem. But then they would know he’d broken them. Splinter had emphasized the alarms that would ring if Harry used the Floo without permission, if he was gone from the house more than half an hour or to any one of a number of suspicious places, or if he cast a Dark spell. Harry had only managed to slip out for the meeting with Malfoy because the Leaky Cauldron was on the small list of places he didn’t need permission to go.  
  
 _People who frequent it already know you, and know to stay away from you,_ Splinter had told him when Harry asked about it a week ago.  
  
Now, in the middle of his own home—a house he’d inherited from a man suspected for half his life of doing something horrible and Dark—that notion struck Harry like a blow to the face. They were  _going to stay away from him?_ For  _what?_ What kind of disease or taint did they think he’d pick up from them, that all the “normal” people had to huddle on one side of the room while Harry was on the other?  
  
 _I was blind. I was stupid and blind. I was panicking, and I shouldn’t have been panicking_.  
  
Even that, Harry thought, wasn’t enough of an excuse. But the other half of it was the way he’d felt since the war. He’d been perfectly relaxed and happy to do what Kingsley asked of him when it came to the Lightfinder because he really did think it was all over, that he would never suffer anything as bad as the war again. That had made it hit him all the harder when he realized he was Dark.  
  
 _I have an affinity for spells they don’t want me to practice. So bloody what? Did they even_ think  _about that, or do they think the Lightfinder measures something else?_  
  
Harry’s footsteps slowed at that thought. They did, didn’t they? Kingsley had told him that. They thought it measured the taint on the soul that came from casting certain spells. And he only had Malfoy’s word that Dark wizards really had an affinity for spells and not—not something else. Something evil.  
  
 _Can I trust Malfoy?_  
  
He could trust him to want to save his own life. Even to save his friends, Harry thought. He could trust him not to come up with a silly lie that was easily disproven. Malfoy had changed from the boy in school who  _would_ have come up with a lie like that.  
  
If Malfoy was right, though, some of the older people, not in Harry’s generation, ought to know what was going on. They would have been taught the same things Malfoy was claiming all wizards had once learned, that the Ministry had wanted them to learn as children in Defense Against the Dark Arts.  
  
Harry still had a limited number of people he could owl without suspicion, especially if the owl seemed aimed at trying to make himself better and Light. And he immediately sat down and wrote a letter to Kingsley, struggling to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t make Kingsley wonder who he had talked to and where he had gone.  
  
Now, he was thinking about things like that as a practical matter of survival. A day ago, he would have been nodding gloomily and thinking that of  _course_ they couldn’t trust him. Harry couldn’t trust  _himself._ He hadn’t known  _anything_ about the taint on his soul until the Lightfinder told him.  
  
Now…  
  
 _I should have known better. I should have realized that they were going to wheel around against me the instant I did something they didn’t like._  
  
Harry’s hands were cold and shaking as he wrote. He was thinking of the Muggleborn children who might be turned back into the Muggle world, and the younger children who might be put in Slytherin and then promptly into the Lightfinder.   
  
But he was thinking, too, of George, who Harry knew had gone out hunting Death Eaters a month ago, trying in vain to find the exact one who had made the stone wall fall on Fred. He had used Dark spells. He’d told Harry that.  
  
He was thinking of Hermione, who no longer let rules stop her.  
  
He was thinking of Ginny, who had hinted some things, before the Lightfinder and the cessation of contact between her and Harry, about what she’d done to survive the war in Hogwarts intact.  
  
 _If I had to be a sacrifice so that my friends could go free, I could do that. But they have to go free._  
  
 _And I’m not going to be a sacrifice to the wizarding world’s peace of mind anymore. I absolutely won’t do it. I was stupid to consider doing it in the first place._  
  
*  
  
“It really seemed to go well?”  
  
Draco leaned back in the leather chair that Astoria’s ancestors had been kind enough to bequeath her and sighed, taking a long sip of his Firewhisky. He hadn’t been relaxed enough to drink it in front of Potter, but Merlin, he needed it now. “It seemed to. Of course, he only really listened when I started talking about children. And he was probably thinking of Muggleborns the whole time.” Draco rolled his eyes. “He’s going to be a trial to work with.”  
  
But a trial was better than nothing, and he could see the thought echoed on Pansy’s face without him ever speaking the words.  
  
“I wonder if he was thinking of himself, too,” said Pansy idly, sitting down in the chair next to Draco and folding her legs up the way she only did when she was relaxed. Draco hid a smile behind his glass. “I mean, he might have been, if the conversation went that way.”  
  
“The only thing Potter thinks about in relation to himself is how he can martyr himself best,” Draco said darkly. The more he thought about it, the more it infuriated him, Potter plodding to the guillotine like a little blind lamb. “He’s powerful, he’s Dark, he shouldn’t be  _doing_ that.”  
  
He looked up to see Pansy frowning at him. “I didn’t mean that. I mean that he was a child who was almost shut out of the wizarding world, too, so maybe he does think about it more.” Pansy waved her hand. “Whatever convinces him.”  
  
“Oh, come on, Pansy. You didn’t  _really_ believe those rumors about his relatives?”  
  
“Not the ones that said they were starving him to skin and bones every year and he had to escape by climbing down a rope from his window, no.” Pansy shook her head. “But the ones that said he was ignorant? Yeah. You only had to look at him our first year to see that.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth, then shut it with a frown. It was true that Potter had been stunningly ignorant, and not only about what Dark and Light spells really were—an ignorance that was frustratingly widespread in Draco’s own generation. He didn’t know how to write with a quill, his own family history, that Sirius Black had been his godfather, that spells existed to correct his eyesight, that there was a difference between some wizarding families and others,  _anything_.  
  
“You really never noticed this before,” said Pansy, in the tone of someone making an interesting observation.  
  
Draco held up one hand, and unusually for her, Pansy respected the demand for silence. Draco chewed his lip for a second, and then shrugged. “It changes nothing, except that I might understand why Potter makes some of the demands he does.”  
  
“Yes, you might understand that,” said Pansy, and never hid that she was rolling her eyes.  
  
Then again, there were lots of things that Draco had never hidden from her, either, and they still managed to support and help each other. He leaned further back in the leather chair, sipped again from his Firewhisky, and continued, “Now, let’s just hope that Potter doesn’t do anything stupid—”  
  
Something hit the door of the room. Draco found his drink on the floor, his wand in his hand, and Pansy standing beside him before he’d even been aware that he was moving.   
  
Then the door opened, and Astoria was there, pale and trembling, her face like porcelain. Draco opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but shut it again when two Aurors followed Astoria into the room.  
  
Draco had a moment’s shaken conviction that Astoria had betrayed them, but when he looked at her, he knew the truth. Something else had. Maybe Daphne, who had never been as happy as Astoria about hiding them, or maybe Draco hadn’t taken enough precautions when he went to meet Potter.  
  
“Surrender, and you won’t be harmed,” said the nearer Auror in a bored voice. Draco wasn’t fooled. He had heard boredom like that before from some of the Death Eaters, the ones who enjoyed hurting people. This woman had the same feral look in her eyes, and her hand on the wand was a little white, and her breathing was a little fast.  
  
“What she says,” said the other Auror, one that looked familiar to Draco from his father’s arrest, although he didn’t know his name.  
  
Draco raised his wand higher, and angled his body a little in front of Pansy, signals she would grasp at once. “I know that Parkinson is being sought because she wanted to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord, but what about me? I’ve already been sentenced. It wouldn’t make sense to take me into custody when I can’t be tried for anything else.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have run if you weren’t guilty of something,” the female Auror retorted instantly.  
  
 _If that’s the way you want to play it._ Draco sighed and let his head hang. “I’m lowering my wand, all right?” he whispered. “I’m putting it down. Don’t curse me.”  
  
They both followed him as he lowered his wand, but they weren’t fast enough. They didn’t have the training to cope with a Dark wizard, even if they were Dark themselves. Few people learned those spells anymore.   
  
Or maybe it was that they simply didn’t have the speed and determination that desperation had given Draco.  
  
When his wand was at the level of the table, Draco cast the spell, nonverbally, although the effort made sweat spring out on his forehead.  _Terror pone_ , he thought, as hard as he could.  
  
The spell formed slowly behind the Aurors. Draco couldn’t see its form; only those the spell was cast on would know exactly what stood at their backs, always at their backs no matter which way they turned, and breathed coldly on their ears. The man’s face became waxen. The woman shut her eyes.  
  
Draco grabbed Pansy’s hand, in the moment before their training would probably take over and they would manage to dispel the magic, and slipped out of the room behind the Aurors. He took Astoria’s arm, too, and she shook herself from the trance and ran with them, moving lightly, her slippers shuffling. Draco Transfigured them into sturdier shoes without stopping. She would have to come with them, and that meant she would need more practical footwear.  
  
Astoria drew her wand and murmured Summoning Charms. Draco nodded as jewelry and coins came flying towards them, along with a few of the more useful books. At least fear didn’t paralyze Astoria the way Draco had thought it might. She was only sixteen, but she knew that, right now, worrying about the Trace on her wand was the last thing they needed to do.  
  
 _She’ll have to have a new wand, though. Or else use ours._  
  
Pansy was the one who woke Draco from his trance, shaking Draco’s arm hard. “Draco, where are we going to go?”  
  
She wasn’t panicking, either, but Draco knew that steel ice surface could crack and let the fear through. He took her hand, smiled into her eyes, and murmured, “My owls could get to Potter even through the protections they had set up. It probably has to do with him being at a Black house and my mother being a Black. We’re going to take the chance and go there.”  
  
Pansy shut her eyes and nodded. “I suppose you know where it is?”  
  
“I know the name,” said Draco. “But I can do better than that.” He turned to Astoria as she dropped the wards on the house, and she knew. In a blink, Draco seized both their arms and spun in place, Apparating.  
  
They appeared on the path that led from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts.  
  
Pansy stared at him, panting, her hair moving in the little puffs from her breath. “Draco,” she whispered.  
  
“There’s no one here yet,” Draco said, which was true. The work of rebuilding the school had gone more slowly than the Ministry had predicted, and with the Lightfinder distracting them, Draco didn’t know when they would get back to it. That benefited them, right now, since no one would think they would come here.  
  
He Disillusioned them and walked briskly along the path. Astoria got it after a moment, and shook herself free to walk beside him. Her mouth was set and white. Pansy still trailed behind in a silence that grew thicker and heavier, and made Draco want to snap at her.  
  
 _What other options do we have?_ Yes, they had hoped they could stay safe in Astoria’s home, but that hope was unfounded. Fine. Draco planned to adapt and survive, not sit somewhere and whimper.  
  
 _And I’m glad that I went ahead and contacted Potter, so we at least have an option about where to go._  
  
That didn’t mean Potter would let them stay with him. From the way Pansy caught up with him a second later and murmured, “If it would make it easier for me to stay behind, I can go somewhere else,” she understood that very well.  
  
“No,” Draco told her. “He might reject us, but he’s going to reject us together, not one by one.”  
  
Pansy closed her eyes. Draco shook her shoulder before he looked away. He knew that she didn’t want him witnessing her weakness, and he would have done the same for her.  
  
They made their way through the gates and around the side of the castle. Draco knew better than to go inside. For one thing, the Ministry would have some protections set up; for another, sections of the school were still unstable.  
  
But as he stepped over rubble and stopped, gazing up, he saw what he had hoped to. The Owlery still had birds soaring around it and ducking through the windows. This was among the sections of the school not as badly-damaged.  
  
Draco whistled softly. One of the owls swooped down and towards him. Draco drew his wand and became visible, though he tasted his heart in his mouth as he did so. If they were going to be spotted and stopped, this was when it would probably happen.  
  
But nothing happened, at least right then, except the owl settling on his shoulder and giving him an inquiring look. Draco plunged a hand into his pocket, and then groaned. He’d forgotten to bring any parchment or ink.  
  
“Here.”  
  
Astoria handed what he needed over, and Draco smiled at her. She didn’t seem to notice, since she was examining their surroundings with eyes that darted from wall to wall, from rubble to new-entwined growing plants and towards the Forest. Draco nodded. They needed someone who would keep watch for them.  
  
He wrote, as quickly as he could while he braced the parchment against the wall, about what had happened, and then he attached the letter to the owl. It hooted at him in a way that sounded like gratitude—maybe it had been bored—and then swooped up and away. Draco Disillusioned them again and cast some Warming Charms. Astoria leaned close against him, and Pansy stood up as Draco sank down against the wall.  
  
“What now?” Pansy whispered.  
  
“Now?” Draco shrugged. “We wait.”  
  
*  
  
Harry sat back, shaking his head. Kingsley’s letter had come almost as soon as Harry contacted him, or at least it seemed that way. Harry knew about how long it took an owl to fly from Grimmauld Place to the Ministry, and the bird had returned awfully fast.  
  
 _Harry,_  
  
 _I know the chaos you must be feeling in your soul. None of us thought you would test Dark. We should have been prepared for the possibility and prepared_ you  _for the possibility, but none of us did. I’m sorry._  
  
 _As for what you say about Dark Arts, yes, it’s true that you probably have some power in casting the Unforgivables. But it’s not just about power, or the Lightfinder wouldn’t have told us anything new. There are already spells that can reveal the extent of a wizard’s magical strength. What the Lightfinder tells us is the likelihood of someone doing it again—the taint on the soul that we talked about._  
  
 _Your aura was huge, and dark. The darkness is the important thing here, how it had indigo at the edges. If you were green with some blue, then I think we wouldn’t take it as seriously, but there was indigo in front of the entire wizarding world. We had to do something._  
  
 _You used the Unforgivables. You cast them well. Forgive me for saying it, Harry, but you had the hatred and pain in your soul that enabled you to cast the Cruciatus, and the desire to have someone else under your control that let you cast the Imperius. So this is the way it has to be. You have to remain under custody until we could find a way to reverse it._  
  
 _Splinter is confident he can reverse it. That’s what Lethe is for. And once we have it, then you can give up that affinity for the Dark Arts. That’s what Lethe will erase, your closeness to that kind of magic. After that, your aura should be red._  
  
 _Kingsley_.  
  
Harry bowed his head a little. So Malfoy had been right that older wizards still knew about that closeness to a certain kind of spell that Dark wizards had. He was wrong about that making any difference to the Ministry.  
  
Or maybe he had never said that he thought it would, and Harry was just the one who had  _hoped_ it would be different once he explained things to Kingsley. Harry’s head was whirling so much it was hard to be sure.  
  
Harry sighed and put the letter down, and only then noticed another owl waiting. This one was brown and nondescript, but there was only a limited number of people it could have come from. Harry put his hand out. “Hey, what it is?”  
  
The owl hopped onto his shoulder and insistently held out the letter. Harry opened it, and found Malfoy’s handwriting.  
  
This day just got weirder and weirder.  
  
 _I know you don’t have much reason to trust us, Potter, but we’ve been chased out of the place where we were staying by Aurors who found us. Do you have enough room in the old Black house to accommodate three guests? Can you get us through the wards without alerting anyone? We’re at Hogwarts._  
  
There was no signature, as if Malfoy had been relying on Harry recognizing his writing. Then again, who else would communicate with Harry through mysterious unsigned letters at this point? And Harry didn’t think the wards would have allowed many other letters through.  
  
He sighed and wondered for a long minute whether he should go get Malfoy and his “guests” or have them come to him. Either was risky, but Hogwarts wasn’t on the list of places that Harry could go—he hadn’t thought to ask for it—and that meant he would probably trigger an alarm the instant he left.  
  
 _Come ahead,_ he wrote, along with the Apparition coordinates, and the owl grabbed the letter in its beak and took off through the window, feathers bristling with importance.  
  
Harry sat still for a long second before he called to Kreacher to start cleaning out some of the bedrooms that had stayed silent and unoccupied for years.  
  
*  
  
Draco appeared next to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and spent a moment staring at the ugly old thing. He could see why his mother had never contested the inheritance that Sirius Black had left to Potter. It wasn’t worth claiming.  
  
But it could be a sanctuary now, and while it wouldn’t be as luxurious as Astoria’s house, it looked more than big enough to hold them. Draco prodded Astoria, who was staring, gently forwards, and she blushed and started walking. Pansy followed behind Draco, still grumbling under her breath.  
  
“—really sure we can trust him? What if we can’t? What if he remembers his Light roots and turns us over to the Aurors?”  
  
Draco shrugged at her. “He would probably get in just as much trouble as we would, even if he didn’t do anything to cause it. They’re that suspicious of him now.”  
  
He wanted to say, too, that Potter had never been a Light wizard and he was starting to understand that, but he didn’t want to get into an argument with Pansy about it. And she was in the mood to argue.  
  
For a moment, Draco felt a tingle of wards, but they slid over him without reaction. His Black blood, he supposed.  
  
A second later, Astoria and Pansy froze in place. Draco whirled around, hand on his wand. He had thought that having them accompany him would be enough to get them inside, but maybe not—  
  
“Just a second.”  
  
Potter’s tooth-gritted voice came from behind him. Draco forced himself to lift his hand off his wand and still, and watch as the wards wavered back and forth, seemingly caught between the need to defend the house and Potter’s uncertain control.   
  
Draco heard a grunt of effort a second later, and the wards snapped back behind Pansy and Astoria, leaving them able to move. They hurried towards Draco and stood beside him, and Draco turned around.  
  
Harry Potter leaned, panting, against the side of his doorframe. He shook his head when he met Draco’s eyes and pushed sweat-soaked hair away from his scar.  
  
“I suppose that’s well and truly put me on the side of the Dark, now,” he muttered. “You can come in.”


	6. Council of War

“Will your friends be joining us, Potter?”  
  
Draco used the question as a neutral one. He was too occupied in staring at the riches of library around him to ask something deeper, or more probing, or more interesting.  
  
The library had shelves that loomed to the ceiling, and the books that occupied them were squashed together, worn leather binding against bright red, covers that almost looked like woven wood and ones that had to be dragonhide scattered casually here and there. Without looking more closely, Draco couldn’t tell their system of organization, but he had no doubt that they were old. And there were a few titles that told him here were tomes that most people had considered lost forever.  
  
He wanted to wander along the shelves, let his fingers trail down the spines, and absorb the sense of lingering magic and power there. He wanted to see if there was any way that he could learn something from simple touch. Some grimoires spoke to you like that, through the brush of fingers on the binding of someone brave enough to touch them, instead of looking at their pages. Their secrets were powerful enough to destroy you if you read them.  
  
“No,” Potter said, and shocked Draco back to the moment. It was probably a good thing. Astoria’s hold on his arm was getting uncomfortable, and Draco wanted her to be able to stand on her own in a lair of their enemies—or the people who had recently been their enemies—not seem like she would be a good target. He gently let her hand go, and patted it when she looked up at him with an expression like pain. Astoria bit her lip, understanding, and turned away, sitting down in the chair furthest from the fire.  
  
“Why not?” Pansy studied Potter from head to foot. Draco hoped she was seeing some of the same things Draco had during their last meeting, the open secrets that had made him decide to take a chance on Potter.  
  
“Because I can’t get a firecall through to them, and sending an owl would be too conspicuous if they’re in a meeting or something,” Potter said simply. “And I’m not sure how they would react to seeing you here.” He was looking at Draco in particular, but his eyes flicked sideways to encompass Pansy, too.  
  
Pansy grimaced and nodded. “What are you planning?”  
  
“That depends a lot on you.” Potter finally finished piling wood in the fireplace and flicked his wand to light it. He turned around with his back to the hearth and studied them with as much interest as they’d given him. “I wasn’t planning on hosting you this morning, you understand.”  
  
“We need to come up with a way to use your fame and get the word out to the public about what the Lightfinder really does,” Draco said, because they did, and he was a little exasperated with the notion that they would do something else first.  
  
“What proof do we have?” Potter extended one empty hand.  
  
Draco snorted. “Maybe you scorn to make allies of older generations, but I don’t. They’re the ones who know about Dark and Light and Shadow affinities, and what they really mean. And the other categories of spells, too. They’re the ones who can help us make the best arguments about the spells that stand to get banned if the Ministry keeps going the way it is, and how many of them are ordinary spells that no one would be able to live without.”  
  
Potter bit his lip for a moment. Then he nodded and folded his arms, leaning back so that his head bumped against the mantel. “But what about the younger generations? And how are we going to show that the Lightfinder  _does_ show your affinity instead of, for example, the taint on the soul that the Ministry believes it shows?”  
  
“It’s  _ridiculous_ that anyone believes that,” said Pansy fiercely.  
  
“Agreed. But we still need proof otherwise, because that’s what the paper is telling everyone.” Potter glanced at her, then waved his wand and floated a piece of parchment over to him. “I thought I’d write to Shacklebolt today and ask about what you told me—”  
  
Draco found himself on his feet without thinking about it. Well, he  _had_ just escaped from Aurors who wanted to take him captive and maybe torture him, and only spent about half an hour in the bedroom Potter had given him before they gathered in the library. “You’ve just revealed everything, then?” he asked, and lifted his wand to cast a Memory Charm.  
  
Potter’s wand was already there, though, and he gave Draco a flat look. “ _No_. I only asked about what you said, about the Light and the Dark Arts and the affinities. I had to have some independent source of confirmation. Otherwise, admit it, you would have called me a fool and a trusting Gryffindor, and say that I shouldn’t have believed you so readily.”  
  
Draco frowned and shifted his shoulders backwards, dropping his wand to his side. “I wouldn’t have said that.”  
  
But he probably would have thought it, at least if Potter had appeared to embrace Draco’s words without considering them carefully. Potter watched him with gleaming eyes that said he knew it.  
  
“Fine. Shacklebolt, at least, is utterly convinced that the Lightfinder reveals a taint on the soul, and he thinks that I’ll be fine as soon as I go through Lethe. Here.”  
  
He handed the letter to Draco. Draco kept himself from gaping, but barely. This was a level of trust he hadn’t thought he would get from Potter. It meant that he—that he—  
  
Would have to consider some of his own movements more carefully, especially if Potter wasn’t such a Gryffindor fool as he’d presumed.  
  
He read through the letter, and Pansy came forwards to read over his shoulder. Astoria curled up harder in her chair and shivered.  
  
“What does it say?” she whispered.  
  
Potter cast her an unexpectedly tender glance. Draco raised his eyebrows, and then snorted in remembrance. Potter could see she was younger than they were, and he’d never had hostile dealings with her when she was still in Slytherin. He probably wanted to safeguard her for the same reason that he did the children Draco had mentioned.  
  
 _So Potter’s still a hero, even if he’s stopped being a martyr. Check. Let’s hope that works out for us._  
  
“That Potter here has the hatred and the power in his soul to cast the Unforgivables, and the Lightfinder doesn’t just reveal the extent of a wizard’s power and affinity because there are spells that would show that already,” said Draco sourly, and held the letter out to Pansy, who carried it over to Astoria. He switched his gaze back to Potter. “How did that make you feel?” He would have been furious, himself.  
  
“Abandoned, at first,” said Potter, and then his head came up. “And then furious. But it gave me the beginnings of a plan. There are spells that show a wizard’s power. Can we show similarities between them and the Lightfinder?”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows, interested. “Not all of them would show someone’s power as color. Are you asking about something that could do that?”  
  
“Could we show that a spell like that functions like the Lightfinder?” Potter countered. “I don’t know enough magical theory to come up with a good description. Maybe Hermione would.” Draco curled his lip a little, but although Potter gave him a stern look, he didn’t consider it enough worth bothering about to interrupt himself. “Or maybe we could develop a spell like the Lightfinder that would show power as color, but we could make everyone acknowledge that that was just what it  _did_ , that it didn’t show a taint on the soul.”  
  
“That’s unexpectedly clever,” said Draco.  
  
Potter gave him a grin with edges. “Thank you.”  
  
“Oh, you know what he means, Potter,” said Pansy, breaking in before Draco could say something he might regret. “I think we have to show that spells like that function the same way the Lightfinder does. Developing a new spell takes a long time.”  
  
“That’s true.” Potter shrugged a little. “So now we just have to come up with a good candidate.”  
  
“There’s the Soul Revelation Spell.”  
  
Astoria’s voice was so quiet and Potter so still that Draco thought at first Potter hadn’t heard her, and started to open his mouth to explain. But then he saw Potter turn towards Astoria’s chair, and nod encouragingly. “Yes? What’s that? Does it function differently from the Lightfinder if it shows the soul?”  
  
Astoria was sitting up with her hands clenched as if fighting against her own temerity, but she gave Potter a sharp glance at his words, and Draco smiled. She needed some opposition to find her voice, just like some Slytherins always had. “It’s not really the  _soul_ that it shows, and I don’t  _care_ what they told you.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of the spell, and I don’t believe that the Lightfinder shows my soul.” Potter gave a restless little motion of his hand that he cut off when Astoria frowned and bit her lip, maybe when he saw how nervous she was. “I was just going by the name of the spell.”  
  
Pansy opened her mouth, but Draco caught her eye and shook his head. It would be good if Potter respected Astoria as one of them, and that meant letting her speak up with her own words and make her own mistakes, if she was going to make them.  
  
“The Soul Revelation Spell just shows your affinity and power,” said Astoria. “It doesn’t show the soul. It got named that by ignorant people who didn’t understand what it  _did._ Just like the Lightfinder.”  
  
Now that Draco thought of it, he should have remembered that. Granted, the Soul Revelation Spell wasn’t one he had at the top of his thoughts all the time. But the Lightfinder ought to have reminded him of it, and that should have made him wonder why the Ministry needed to invent a machine for the same purpose when they had that spell.  
  
Potter hadn’t only wondered the same thing, he had leaped past Draco to the answer. “They really  _must_ believe that the Lightfinder shows the soul,” he muttered. “Or they would have just used the spell.”  
  
His face was downcast, the shadows dark in his eyes. Draco frowned at him. Potter sounded more depressed than elated.  
  
“Yes,” said Pansy. “They do. No matter how stupid it is. Magic that affects the soul is simply  _rare_. It’s Light Arts, and that means hard to master, and the Ministry would tax a lot of its practitioners doing it. That’s if they even have more than a few people who can perform this spell, which I doubt. And so they probably thought a machine was more trustworthy and more efficient.”  
  
Potter grunted something. Astoria said, “I think we ought to let as many people as possible know about this spell, so that we can point out the similarities between it and the Lightfinder and urge them to stop using the Lightfinder.”  
  
“How are we going to do that?” Pansy demanded. “It’s not like we have regular access to lots of owls and pamphlets.”  
  
Astoria replied heatedly, and Pansy moved over to her so they could argue better. Draco left them to it. He had a target of his own, and he stood up and approached Potter, who was turned around so that he was staring into the fireplace, his hands resting heavily on the mantel.  
  
“What is it?” Draco asked. It would probably turn out to be something ordinary, but for the moment, Potter was more fascinating even than the library.  
  
“There’s a small chance that the Lightfinder might show the soul. Or be involved with soul magic, at least.”  
  
“No, there’s not,” Draco said sharply. “Because the soul, assuming that it exists as a definable identity, has nothing to do with your affinity or your power.” He paused. Potter said nothing. “Are you going to explain what you mean?”  
  
*  
  
 _I shouldn’t. But what if they make a wrong decision because they don’t have all the information?_  
  
Harry turned slowly around. There might be a way to explain the connection he’d had with Voldemort without explaining all the nuances, he thought. The last thing he wanted was to expose the kind of soul magic Voldemort had used.  
  
But they had to understand something, and from the way Malfoy was standing near him, with flared nostrils and dark, intent eyes, he wouldn’t be put off by an ordinary lie.  
  
“You know that I had a connection with Voldemort,” Harry said, and tapped his scar.  
  
Malfoy flinched. “Do you have to use that name?”  
  
“ _Yes,_ ” Harry snapped. “Because it’s a bloody  _name._ If you really didn’t believe that he was gone and never coming back, then I doubt you would be standing here now!”  
  
Malfoy hesitated. “Point.” On the other side of the library, Parkinson and Greengrass had gone still. Harry exhaled. Malfoy continued, “But what kind of connection was it?”  
  
This much, Harry thought he could explain without endangering anything. “A soul connection,” he replied. “I could see through his eyes and feel his emotions. I could sometimes see what his snake familiar was doing, because Nagini was also linked to his soul.” Malfoy looked pale and sick, and Harry nodded grimly. “It has to do with the way that my mother sacrificed herself to save me that night, and then he used my blood in a ritual to come back. So the connection we had got strengthened. My scar hurt and sometimes bled when he was angry. And sometimes he knew what I knew. That sort of thing.”  
  
Malfoy swallowed, but got back to the main point instead of being distracted into gape-mouthed horror like it seemed the two Slytherin girls were going to be. “And so you think the Lightfinder might have picked up on a real taint in your soul, because you were linked to someone evil?”  
  
Harry nodded, relieved that he didn’t need to talk about Horcruxes and split souls and all the rest of it. “We won’t know for sure until they test the Lightfinder on lots of other people—”  
  
“They have,” Malfoy interrupted, looking at him strangely. “Didn’t you know that? Most of the news stories have been following you and the development of Lethe, but of course they’ve done other tests.”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. “I was barely reading the news, and only paying attention to what was happening with Lethe and these attempts to ‘redeem’ me,” he admitted. He did remember Hermione bringing up something about testing other people in the Lightfinder, but she had been able to tell he wasn’t interested, and she’d dropped it. “How many people? How many have tested Dark?”  
  
“A hundred and ten, and almost everyone has tested at least green.” Malfoy folded his arms and stared at him. “They’ve only tested a few red ones and a few yellow ones, and they were all children but one.”  
  
“That means they’ve had less time to do evil things?” Harry asked.  
  
Malfoy gave him a nasty smile. “It means their affinity isn’t that strong yet because they haven’t had the chance to  _cast_ that much magic. And there are children who’ve tested Dark. Those are the ones they’re debating about cutting out of Hogwarts and insisting that they be monitored at home.” He paused. “Still think the Ministry has a point, Potter?”  
  
“I never thought they had a point about the children they tested, Muggleborn or pure-blood,” Harry snapped back. “I thought they might have a point about  _me,_ because I did have that connection. No one else did.”  
  
“Yes, yes, you’re unique,” Malfoy interrupted, and stepped up, staring at him. “I’m only going to say this once, Potter. You take too much on yourself. Not all your uniqueness is evil, and not everything that happened during the war is your fault.” He swallowed a second later, looking nauseated. “Don’t make me say that again.”  
  
Harry laughed, and broke what he thought could have been an unpleasant silence when he did so. “Fine. So they’ve tested others in the Lightfinder, and they’re discovering more Dark wizards than they thought they had.” He turned to Greengrass and Parkinson, watching them with silent faces. “If one of us went and performed the Soul Revelation Spell, would they know what we were doing? Is it seen as threatening?”  
  
“Who can perform it?” Parkinson asked. “Draco and I are wanted, and we probably can’t do it anyway. They’re watching you. Astoria can’t use her wand without revealing where she is since she still has the Trace on it.”  
  
Harry snorted. “You can use mine,” he told Greengrass, who tucked her elbows in and simply nodded. “But although they’re watching me, there are times they do want me to use my magic, usually when I’m speaking to Splinter about Lethe. Would that be more acceptable? I’ll ask about the spell and tell them that it seems to have the same effect as the Lightfinder, so I’d like to use it to monitor myself and make sure that I’m not becoming more Dark.”  
  
“That’s an interesting idea, Potter,” Malfoy said from behind him. “Where was this interesting person when we were at Hogwarts?”  
  
“Too busy trying to survive to think about the larger issues of life,” Harry told him dryly. “What do you think, Parkinson, Greengrass?”  
  
“Call me Astoria,” Greengrass whispered. “I think you should.”  
  
Harry glanced at Parkinson, who sniffed and stuck her nose up as if she wanted the ceiling to get a good look up her nostrils. “I’m not giving you permission to call me by my first name. When you’ve earned it, you’ll know.”  
  
Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes at her. “Very well. But what do you think about the question that I asked you?”  
  
Parkinson hesitated, then locked eyes with him and said, “You know that I would have given you to the Dark Lord.”  
  
Harry just looked at her and didn’t say anything. Yes, he knew that. But the way he saw it, the Ministry was the more pressing problem right now. If that was solved, then maybe he and Parkinson could go back to fighting about petty slights that had happened when they were children. Parkinson had wanted to give him to Voldemort, but she hadn’t actually done it, which put her ahead of a lot of other people.  
  
Parkinson seemed to want to work through it, though, so Harry gave her a small nod and waited.  
  
“I want—I want to know that I can trust you,” Parkinson continued in a low voice. “I want to make sure that you’re not going to take it the wrong way, when we have to work together.” She looked away again, but this time, Harry didn’t think it had anything to do with wanting to give the bookshelves or him or even Malfoy a good look at her profile. “If you need to punish me or something like that for my ignorance, go ahead and do it now. Not later. And don’t take it out on Astoria and Draco.”  
  
Harry hesitated. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but that wouldn’t work, because it  _did_ matter to Parkinson. He wondered what the hell he was supposed to do with an opportunity to punish his enemies.  
  
He thought he’d never had the chance before. He’d been fighting Voldemort, who was never going to submit tamely to punishment, and he hadn’t got the chance to actually ever use the Cruciatus on Bellatrix.  
  
But he finally thought of something, and raised his wand. “I want you to make an Unbreakable Vow that you won’t betray me to the Ministry.”  
  
Parkinson turned around and stared at him. “That’s all?”  
  
 _What was she expecting, for me to torture her?_ Harry wondered. And he wondered, too, whether she had been thinking about it in terms of him being a Light wizard, or a Dark wizard, or simply an enemy. But he refused to answer her expectations by doing something he wouldn’t be able to live with later, no matter how good it felt at the time.  
  
“I think that’s enough,” he said shortly. “You’ll have the risk of death, and I can trust you absolutely that way.” He looked over. “Be our Bonder, Malfoy?”  
  
Malfoy was still, maybe remembering the Unbreakable Vows that had bound Snape and the part his own life and near-death had played in them. But then he shook his head as if waking from a dream, and nodded, and moved forwards until he was crouching solemnly in front of Harry. Parkinson came over a second later, and Harry knelt down to face her.  
  
“You have to think about the wording of the Vow carefully,” Malfoy said, his voice clipped. “Otherwise, she could die because of an innocent action. And the Vow has to have three parts.”  
  
Harry had already thought about it. He wasn’t such an idiot as Malfoy sometimes thought him. He looked Parkinson dead in the eye. She was a little pale, but she knelt there and looked at him steadily enough.   
  
“Vow that you will never betray what we’re doing here by speaking a word to the Ministry or anyone associated with them,” Harry said.  
  
“I swear,” said Parkinson, and Malfoy moved his wand, and Harry started as the first tongue of flame sprouted.   
  
“You will never betray what we’re doing here by  _writing_ anything to the Ministry or anyone associated with them,” said Harry.  
  
Parkinson gave him a glance that might indicate a little more respect. “I swear.” The second tongue of flame connected their hands. Harry didn’t think Parkinson’s hand was sweating quite as much as it had.  
  
“You will never betray what we’re doing here by gestures or any other kind of action, to the Ministry or anyone associated with them,” Harry demanded.  
  
Parkinson gave another slow nod. “I swear.” And the final flare of fire was there, and Malfoy’s wand moved again, and then he stepped back and looked back and forth between them.  
  
“You realize that the smartest thing for Pansy to do is just not speak or write to anyone outside our little group,” he said, and then rolled his eyes. “Or wave at them, I suppose, or make hand signals.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” said Harry. “That’s all right. There are other roles she can play.” He turned to Parkinson. “I haven’t done much research in this library, because I don’t know how. Can you? Find the Soul Revelation Spell, and the incantation and the wand movement, and what kind of restrictions might be on performing it? Knowing the Ministry, there’s some.”  
  
“Yes,” said Parkinson, and stood up and walked over to the bookshelves. Astoria trailed her, after a small glance at Harry. Harry tried to show her a smile.  
  
That left Harry with Malfoy, who cleared his throat a moment later and said, “It’s interesting, Potter, that you appear so much smarter now that you’ve acknowledged your Dark affinity.”  
  
“I’m smarter now that I don’t have a war occupying my whole attention,” Harry corrected him, and Malfoy looked interested and maybe a little impressed. “Now, come on. You’re going to help me with the magical theory part of this, so I can give a good explanation when they ask me what’s wrong with the Lightfinder.”  
  
He wondered if Malfoy would bristle at the order, but Malfoy followed him tamely enough to the bookshelves instead. His gaze was heavy on Harry, but Harry had lived with that since coming to the wizarding world. He would now.  
  
*  
  
Draco touched his chest, where hope was stirring slowly to life again, a flame that had almost been choked by the ashes.  
  
 _Potter’s right. He can be more than just a figurehead._


	7. Wrestling With the Devil

"You're ready for the next round of tests, Mr. Potter?"  
  
Harry blinked and turned his head. He'd spent most of the morning in a blank grey room, unlike the days when they usually worked with him on Lethe. Then, he would be taken into rooms with various pools of water and wizards and splinters of wood and stones--all materials that Splinter said were set to become part of Lethe--and he would cast spells until the stones or wood or water resonated, or until the wizards responded with certain spells and nodded and wrote things down.  
  
So this was a break in the routine. So was the way that Splinter, who had always seemed at least vaguely interested in Harry's fate so far, was calling him "Mr. Potter" and avoiding his eyes.  
  
"I think I am," said Harry. "But there's something I wanted to know first. Something about the Lightfinder."  
  
Splinter puffed up and took an important little side-to-side step. "Yes. It was mostly my work that got it ready, you know. Not the work of  _any_ dry old theorist they're crediting in the paper today."  
  
Harry nodded and tried to look earnest and innocent and unaffected all at once. "But I think there are some spells that show the same thing the Lightfinder does, right? The same color of a wizard’s magic and the size of their power by aura?"  
  
Splinter stopped dancing. His eyes were cold and round as pebbles. "No. What's special about the Lightfinder is that it also measures the taint on the soul that Dark magic causes. Remember?" He was watching Harry with a special kind of caution now, his hand not hovering far from his wand. "No spell can do that."  
  
This time, Harry tried for a look of innocent confusion. "But this spell is called the Soul Revelation Spell," he said. "I thought it would tell me everything. I thought maybe I could see if my soul has improved since we've been working on it and everyone has been helping me make sure that I don't do anything else Dark."  
  
Splinter's mouth pursed and his eyes became narrow little slits instead of pebbles. "Who told you about that?"  
  
Harry hung his head. "Nobody," he whispered, and tried to make it sound like he thought he'd done something wrong--the way he had, a few days ago--without having anything to feel really guilty about. "I was looking through books in the Black library, wearing gloves. I thought reading some books left by a Dark family could help me understand how to stop being Dark. I'd do the opposite of what they'd done, and I'd be cured."  
  
Splinter didn't immediately accuse him of conspiring with Slytherins, which was something, at least, Harry thought, hanging his head and peering up from under his eyelashes. But Splinter did look as if he were drawing conclusions that tasted sour. A second later, he shook his head and turned to Harry. He was trying to look pleasant, but the inside of his mouth must still have tasted bad.  
  
"Listen," he said, so calmly, so kindly, that Harry would have been inclined to believe him if he was a fool. "I don't think there's a way that you can do the  _opposite_ of most of what they did. You can't un-bait Muggles. You can't ease the Dark taint on your soul by casting Light spells."  
  
"So the Soul Revelation Spell is a Light spell?" Harry brightened, and hoped that he was doing a convincing job of it. He probably was. If it was Light Arts, there was certainly the chance that they would let him cast it in their presence, which wasn't the case for a lot of the other spells. "I could still try it!"  
  
Splinter reached out and put a hand like a crab's claw on his shoulder. "You have to stop thinking there's a simple cure for this, Harry."  
  
 _At least we're back to first names,_ Harry thought. "I thought Lethe was a cure."  
  
"But not a simple one." Splinter's smile was a little strained now. "That's why we have to spend so much time testing you, to make sure that we're not hurting you worse than you've already been hurt."  
  
"Lethe touches my soul? Is it like the Soul Revelation Spell?" Harry would keep the topic of the conversation on that spell as much as he could.  
  
"The spell doesn't have anything to do with your soul," Splinter all but snapped, and Harry made his expression as much like a beaten puppy's as he could, stepping back from Splinter and blinking rapidly.  
  
"Despite the name?"  
  
"Despite the name." Splinter was watching him with a cold air now, and he looked around as though he expected the bare walls to sprout rebels against the Ministry. "Who's been talking to you about these notions of Light and Dark and baring your soul, Mr. Potter?"  
  
"I don't want to be Dark," Harry whispered, looking at the floor. "I don't want to be that way  _anymore._ I thought there was a fast cure."  
  
Splinter sighed. "There's no cure except time and remorse and Lethe. That's why it's new, and that's why we have to test it and test it to make sure that it's safe for you. I'm sorry, Harry. But that's the way it  _has_ to be." He patted Harry's shoulder, but it felt mechanical, unlike most of the other times he'd done it. "Come on. We have the next test ready now."  
  
"Can't I just  _try_ casting the Soul Revelation Spell?" Harry asked, and he didn't care how desperate he sounded. He would probably  _get_ desperate in a little while, if he couldn't do something that would make Splinter pay attention and stop dragging him towards Lethe. Malfoy was right; who knew what that machine would do? They had been wrong about what the Lightfinder would do, and that might also be the case with Lethe.  
  
"Why would you want to?" Splinter's face had closed, and his grip had turned to a pincer one on Harry's shoulder. "You can't cast it on yourself, anyway."  
  
None of the books that Parkinson and Astoria had found had said that. It was possible, since Harry still didn't know a lot about the spell or the magical theory behind it, but he doubted it. He smiled, or he tried. "Let me try anyway? What harm can it do?"  
  
"It could prejudice your soul as far as Lethe is concerned."  
  
" _Why_ , if it's not Dark Arts?"  
  
Harry might have gone on arguing, but Splinter turned and flicked his wand. A spell Harry didn't know shimmered yellow on the end of the wand for a second, then shot up to the ceiling and splashed there in a fountain of sparks. It reminded Harry a little of the sparks that Hagrid had told him and Neville to shoot off in the Forbidden Forest that evening when they had first seen Voldemort drinking unicorn blood, but he doubted the purpose of this spell was as innocuous.  
  
Harry seized his own wand, then breathed deeply when he saw the challenging way Splinter was looking at him. If he rebelled too much now, he might lose the chance to do it later. He would just be confirming their idea that he was Dark and defiant and couldn't be trusted.  
  
He managed to release his wand.  
  
Splinter gave him a hard smile and murmured, "You needn't fear that you'll go Darker than you are, Harry. We'll do  _anything_ to prevent that from happening." He turned around as the door opened, and nodded as several Aurors trooped in. "Ah, yes. It seems that Mr. Potter here is asking some questions that might indicate a further taint on his soul."  
  
"All right," said the Auror on the left, a bulky man that Harry placed after a moment as an Auror called Rallan, one of the ones who had escorted him off the stage after the Lightfinder test. "Come on, then. You don't want to be Dark, do you?" He walked up to Harry with a strange, spring-legged walk that Harry knew meant he was preparing himself to strike back if he had to.  
  
Harry exhaled noisily and faced him. "I don't," he said. "I was just asking for permission to cast a spell that was Light, not Dark! I don't know why Mr. Splinter is being so difficult." He cast an angry glare at Splinter and saw one of the other Aurors step promptly in front of him. He snorted despite himself. "What do you think I am, a basilisk? It's not like I can kill him with a look."  
  
"I think you're a dangerous wizard," said Rallan. "I think that you might have forgotten yourself in your overriding exasperation and anger. I think I'm the one in this room who knows when Splinter needs protection."  
  
His wand had come out, and Harry knew he had to calm things down if he didn't want to be caught up in a magical duel that he might not be able to win. He held his hands out from his sides and smiled as serenely as he could.   
  
"If I'm going to be deprived of the ability to cast even Light Arts," he said, "I wish someone would have told me. That way, it wouldn't have come as a nasty surprise."  
  
"You're deprived of the ability to cast Light Arts, or any, spells that can be cast in an aggressive way." Rallan didn't put away his wand, but nudged Harry in the middle of his chest, and Harry obediently turned towards the door. "That's a truth you ought to have anticipated."  
  
Harry turned his head. "The Soul Revelation Spell is aggressive? Even if I'm using it on myself?" That was certainly not something that Parkinson and Astoria's research had turned up.  
  
"Casting any spell that we don't want you to cast is aggressive and unpermitted," said Splinter, but his voice was loud and hasty in a way that told Harry he hadn't anticipated having to say that. That meant it wasn't the simple truth, either. "Come on, Mr. Potter. Let's get you to your test, and then you can go home and cast that spell on yourself if you really want to."  
  
Harry walked quietly out the door. This wasn't the day that Lethe would be ready, and he didn't see any reason to resist the test anymore. He might already have earned enough valuable information that it wasn't worthwhile prolonging the confrontation.  
  
It was  _strange,_ that's what it was. Why would someone care about a Light spell? And if they did know that the Soul Revelation Spell would show them the same things that the Lightfinder would, why waste all that time developing the machine in the first place? The one thing that Harry never doubted was that the Ministry wanted to avoid unnecessary time and expense.  
  
It wasn't a key to everything that puzzled him about the Lightfinder and the panic over the Dark that had suddenly sprouted up in people, but it was a clue. Harry would ponder it until he could get back to Malfoy and the others.  
  
*  
  
Draco lifted the book above his head. This was one of the older tomes in the Black library, and even with Preservation Charms, the pages had become as thin as onion sheaves, the markings on them hardly legible. He raised his wand and cast a  _Lumos_ Charm.  
  
There was a bang, and Potter's house-elf appeared in front of him. Again Draco had his wand drawn before he thought about it. The Auror invasion of Astoria's home had apparently lent him all sorts of new reflexes.  
  
"Master Malfoy might be hiding!" The house-elf's eyes were almost revolving in their sockets, Draco thought, his heart sinking. "And the mistresses! Aurors be walking through Master Potter's house!"  
  
Draco wanted to question the elf, especially about whether Potter was with the Aurors, but he doubted it. Even if Potter was, it was all too clear that he wasn't directing the search.  
  
He nodded and gave the book to the elf. "Put this back. Hide the others. Hide all traces of our presence."  
  
The elf bowed back to him and vanished, as the book floated to the shelf where Draco had got it. Draco held back the impulse that told him to run and shriek in search of Astoria and Pansy. Kreacher was going to warn them, and he could do it faster than Draco could. Likewise, he would hide all traces of their possessions and stay in the bedrooms, better than Draco could. There was nothing like an elf's magic for dealing with a house.  
  
That left Draco to find a hiding place. One that couldn't be pierced by an Auror's detection spells. One that he had to find in a house that was entirely unfamiliar to him.  
  
He felt panic gnawing along the edges of his mind, and he shut his eyes and forced it down. No. He would--  
  
A slight creak startled him. Draco spun around with his wand in hand, ready to strike and damn the consequences if the Aurors were already here.  
  
No. In the end of one shelf, the paneling stood open. Draco, approaching it cautiously, saw that it appeared to lead to a hollow space behind the books, running parallel to the wall. He had never even thought the bookshelf looked strange, because of the size of those tomes and the way they seemed to press against the back of solid wood.  
  
He didn't have a clue as to why it had opened now, although from the slight, pleasant buzz he felt in the back of his mind as he stepped into the space, he thought it probably had to do with his mother's blood. Perhaps the house was attuned to the needs of Blacks and would open like this for any family member who needed it to.  
  
Draco pulled the panel to, and inched along the narrow passage that opened up in front of him. And it was a passage, not just a hiding place. Although he had to turn sideways most of the time to get along it, and the dust was everywhere, Draco could see the shadow of stairs at the far end, and other, faint lines in the wall that were probably doors.  
  
Other bookshelves? Leading where? Draco's fingers itched. He doubted even Potter knew, because he wasn't a Black by blood.  
  
On and on Draco inched, until he reached the stairs. When he lifted his wand, he could see that the steps went down, rather than up. They grew steeper and smaller the further they descended, and towards the end, Draco could see dirt in the walls that surrounded them. He nodded. They probably burrowed under the garden.  
  
He paused and listened, but he could hear nothing from inside here, not even terrified shrieks. He hoped that meant Kreacher had hidden Pansy and Astoria the way Draco had told him to. Kreacher probably knew other hiding places that could contain people who were Black guests.  
  
At least, Draco hoped he did. He could honestly do nothing about it now. Too many footsteps would have alerted the Aurors that Draco pictured pouring through the Floo.  
  
That meant he was free to explore. And he followed his instinct down the stairs and around in a cramped spiral that was probably meant to save space inside walls this pressing.  
  
Draco ended up with his arms clamped against his sides, marching with his wand dangling down next to his hip, so the light would at least illuminate the next turn of the stairs. At least it was nearly impossible to stumble. He could catch himself instantly on the close-packed dirt and stone that surrounded him.  
  
When he reached the bottom, he stepped onto what he thought was hard-packed dirt for a second, but his feet rang oddly, and so did his hand when it struck the wall. Draco bent his head. Beneath his feet, and all around him, was carefully-laid brick.  
  
Draco blinked. Some wizarding houses were built of brick, but the older ones, like the Manor, usually had mostly stone walls, and at least some wood mixed in as well. This was odd. He only knew a few places that regularly had brick, especially brick on the floor, for easy cleaning.  
  
So he wasn't surprised, after a few turns in that narrow tunnel, to locate a Potions lab as the ceiling and the floor widened out at the same time, dropping Draco into a huge brick-lined basin.  
  
Draco didn't know  _why_ one of his ancestors would have wanted to bury a Potions lab beneath the house. But when he cast his wand-light around, he could see that it was still clean, probably as a result of more of the humming wards draped over the place. When he conjured dust onto one of the great tables, just as a test, it vanished immediately. Draco nodded, impressed.  
  
The main furniture of the lab consisted of six enormous stone tables, all of them supported by six sturdy legs, set in a circle around the drain in the center of the lab. In one corner stood a stone shelf supporting a huge stack of cauldrons, most of them pewter, but a few silver, and one golden. The notched shelf for the vials was made of stone, too, the first one Draco had ever seen that way. He supposed that was no more likely to shatter glass than the wooden ones normally employed. He cast a few detection spells to make sure he wasn't triggering any traps, and then picked up the nearest vial.  
  
Draco had to catch his breath. The liquid inside slid back and forth, golden enough that he didn't need the neatly-written label to tell him what it was, even though he glanced at it.  _Felix Felicis._  
  
It might not still be good, of course. But when Draco uncapped the vial and sniffed, a faint smell of sun-drenched grass rose from the liquid. Yes, it was good.  
  
"How interesting. You would be a descendant of mine, I suppose. But the blond hair is rather unusual."  
  
Draco kept from dropping the vial through a massive effort of will that clamped his fingers around the glass. After a moment, he turned and sent the light scattering through the room. If there was a fireplace, he hadn't yet seen it.  
  
On the wall, when he finally looked for it where he ought to have in the first place, hung a large black picture frame. Draco could have believed it was made out of iron, or the stone that everything else in the bloody place seemed to consist of. In it, painted against a background of bookshelves and a single green rug illuminated by a blazing lamp, stood a wizarding portrait of what must be a Black, given his thick dark hair and his bright eyes.  
  
"Who are you?" Draco asked.  
  
"The owner of this lab." The man smiled, and shook his head. "I should be the one asking  _you_ that, because you're the one who doesn't look like a Black and doesn't look like he has any reason to be here."  
  
Draco stiffened his back and made his voice as challenging as he could. "You  _must_ know that I'm a Black, because you can see how the wards on the lab welcomed me."  
  
The man watched him a little longer, then snorted. "Fine. My name is Aster Black."  
  
Draco searched his memory for a while, although to be honest, his mother had only made sure that he knew the names and right positions of his ancestors in his family tree. She hadn't spent a lot of time on deeds. "Are you one of the family members who got blasted off the tapestry?"  
  
Aster shook his head, looking slightly irritated. "Are they still doing that? The tapestry never lasts long, with all the damage done to it by those spells." He sighed. "No. I was the father of Sirius, Phineas, Elladora, and Isla Black."  
  
Draco did a few quick calculations in his mind. "Then I must not know who you are because it was too many generations back. My mother taught me the generations back to your children's."   
  
"Your mother, then." Aster nodded. "That would explain the hair, if your father is who I think he is." Draco looked an inquiry, and Aster gave him a viper's smile. "It's not hard to tell a Malfoy from the color of his hair."  
  
Before Draco could say anything, Aster added, "But that doesn't mean I can guess your name, or the name of your mother. I would appreciate it if you could clarify for me."  
  
"Draco Malfoy," Draco said. "My mother is Narcissa, your great-great-great-granddaughter. I think," he had to say a moment later, and he felt silly, and wondered if Aster would despise him for not knowing his genealogy well enough.  
  
But instead, Aster had a faint smile curving his mouth. "So she gave you a Black name after all? And you the only Malfoy heir?"  
  
Draco nodded because he thought it the right thing to do. Aster inclined his head. "Well. Then I can welcome you properly, Mr. Malfoy. You're the first of my descendants to find my lab in at least two generations, and the first one who didn't have Black as a surname. If I can help you, I will."  
  
That last statement sounded oddly formal. Draco disregarded it, though. He could use Aster's help. "Good. We have a political situation on our hands at the moment. I'm only in the house at all because I was forced to flee my previous sanctuary thanks to Ministry interference."  
  
Aster sneered a little. "Is this about Muggles again?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "The Ministry thinks that it's created a way to identify Dark wizards based on a taint in their souls. They use a machine called the Lightfinder to do it. They've already identified a powerful wizard as Dark, and they're using another method called Lethe to try and 'cure' him."  
  
Aster stared at him. "If he's powerful, why does he allow this?"  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "He's showing a little sense at last, but he grew up thinking he was Light. And he grew up in the Muggle world, which is worse. And he wanted to be Light so badly that he let them do whatever they wanted."  
  
"What is his name?" Aster asked that with a peculiar emphasis, leaning forwards.  
  
Draco paused, but he didn't think this was a trap. For one thing, if Aster could leave his portrait, he probably knew this already, and for another, there was absolutely no indication that Aster wasn't a Black. He had to be, and that meant he would want to trust and protect family above all else.   
  
"Harry Potter."  
  
"The only heir of Potter?" Aster asked, his hands tightening on what looked like a small side-table, though from the angle Draco was standing at, it was hard to tell what was what in that part of the portrait.  
  
"Yes. Although a half-blood," Draco had to add, so Aster wouldn't have  _too_ high a set of expectations for Potter. "And the current owner of the house, since my cousin Sirius was the heir and willed it to him."  
  
Aster smiled more deeply instead of looking incensed at that information. "I think we have a lot to plan and do," he said. "I know things the Ministry has forgotten, some things it needs to be reminded of."  
  
Draco smiled.


	8. Aster's Help

Harry sighed shakily as he stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place. The “tests” today had been harder than normal. He’d had to stand for hours with his wand held out straight in front of him, and Splinter hadn’t even allowed him to lower his arm when it began to tremble. Harry’s shoulders ached as though he’d been carrying boulders.  
  
He moved into the kitchen, hoping resentfully that he wouldn’t have to endure much more of this before he and the others could go public with some of the information Astoria and Parkinson had discovered. Harry knew it was important for him to hold onto his temper and not lash out as long as they were being discreet, but it physically hurt, sometimes, trying to hold the magic dancing in his blood back.  
  
He paused when he looked at the sink. There was a pile of tumbled cups in it. Kreacher wouldn’t have left them like that, and none of the Slytherins showed signs of knowing what a sink was for.  
  
Harry turned slowly around, his wand out. The kitchen pulsed for a second with a sense of danger. Harry shook his head, wondering if he was being paranoid or not, and summoned Kreacher.  
  
Kreacher appeared bowing from the waist. “Nasty Aurors is invading Master Harry’s privacy,” he said haughtily, straightening up. “Kreacher is sending them home with things to think about.”  
  
“What happened to the Slytherins?” Harry asked at once. “Malfoy and the others? And what did you do to the Aurors?” He knew Kreacher couldn’t have done anything too awful, or he would have suffered and mentioned it, but still. Harry had never heard about punishments for a Dark wizard’s loyal house-elf, but the Ministry might be in the mood to come up with some.  
  
“Kreacher is hiding Master’s friends,” said Kreacher. “And Master Malfoy is discovering secret passage that is only opening to one of Black blood.”  
  
Harry nodded, glad that the Aurors hadn’t apparently discovered—whatever it was they were looking for.  _Not that invading my house when I’m not here isn’t bad enough._ “And what did you do to the Aurors?”  
  
“Kreacher is saying—” Kreacher’s eyes bugged out and his hands clenched for a second in a truly terrifying way that wouldn’t have made Harry surprised to see claws appear on his fingers. “Nasssssty intruders to be disssssrupting Masssster’s privacy! Naughty intruders! Nassssty things!”  
  
Harry blinked. “And they didn’t think you were—I mean, they didn’t try to hurt you?”  
  
“No,” said Kreacher, and his face was once again normal. Well, normal for Kreacher anyway, Harry admitted. It wasn’t like Kreacher had ever looked cheerful and helpful, the way Dobby had. “Aurors is understanding that nassssty intruders cannot be harming Kreacher in the house he is bound to.” He nodded, satisfied.  
  
“Huh,” said Harry, although he supposed it made sense. The Aurors weren’t members of the Black family and couldn’t order Kreacher to punish himself, the way that Lucius Malfoy had been able to order Dobby. “Then you could show me where Malfoy is hiding? We have to discuss what to do about the Aurors.”  
  
“I already have an idea, Potter.”  
  
Harry jerked and turned around. He hated being surprised, and his wand was aimed before he sighed and lowered it. “Don’t do that, Malfoy.” Then he caught sight of Malfoy’s face, and blinked. “What  _happened_ to you?”  
  
Because there was a spiderweb strung across Malfoy’s forehead, but he showed no sign of noticing it. He was still peering at Harry with a radiant expression that made Harry smile without meaning to. If Malfoy had looked like that when he was eleven, Harry  _would_ have wanted to be friends with him.  
  
“I found a portrait of one of my ancestors down in the secret tunnel that the house showed me,” Malfoy said without preamble. Well, Harry reckoned he  _had_ asked him the question that way. He inclined his head. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”  
  
*  
  
“Well, Draco, you didn’t tell me that this Harry Potter had some blood claim to the house after all.”  
  
Draco blinked and stared at Aster. He had opened his mouth to explain the potions lab and Aster’s presence to Potter, teasingly withholding comments until they were down the stairs and actually in front of the portrait. He hadn’t expected the narrowed eyes and the way that Aster almost leaned out of the frame so he could see Potter.  
  
Potter, for his part, didn’t seem surprised. Perhaps he was prepared by the mention of a portrait. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I’m related to the Black family, I reckon, but it has to be distant.”  
  
“It has to be within the last two generations,” said Aster, and his voice was sharp. “I know the color of that hair, and it’s  _not_ a Potter trait.”  
  
Potter blinked and raised a hand to touch his messy mop. Draco was in silent agreement. He had never seen a Black with hair like that. “But I look just like my dad. Everyone tells me that.”  
  
Draco cocked his head at the trace of anger in the back of Potter’s voice, but once again Aster interrupted before he could ask the question. “Then the ones who tell you that are fools. The messiness probably  _does_ come from your rather uncontrolled line.” Aster’s voice was dry. “But the color…don’t tell me that you can look at me, or at this godfather that Draco says you had, and not see the resemblance.”  
  
Potter paused for a long moment, maybe racking his brains. Then he said, “Well. I reckon that Dorea Black was my grandmother.”  
  
Aster sighed. “Then leaving the house to you wasn’t out of the question after all. I had been going to question my great-great-grandson’s wisdom in leaving the vaults and properties to a mere godson.”  
  
Potter’s eyes had a sudden, ferocious gleam, but he only shrugged and said, “The relation is distant. I never knew anything about it because I grew up in the Muggle world after my parents were murdered.”  
  
Aster stared at him. Potter seemed to have taken some pride in shocking him. He stood there with his hand on his hip, his arm cocked, and his wand near his fingertips, though Draco didn’t imagine what he thought he could do to a portrait. He did cast one glance at Draco. “Your ancestor is a bit of a tight-arse, Malfoy,” he murmured.  
  
“Your ancestor, too,” said Draco sweetly, and saw Potter blink hard, his eyelashes fluttering.  
  
“Fine,” said Potter a second later. “ _That’s_ going to take some getting used to.” He shook his head and turned back to Aster. “What exactly is it that you think you can help us with?”  
  
“Knowledge that the Ministry has banned, and which would be useful to a pair of rising Dark wizards.” Aster seemed to be over his shock, and was sitting back against the bookshelf that formed the largest part of the painting, his hands clasped in front of him. “Or even to the revolutionary movement that Draco tells me you hope to start.”  
  
Potter nodded, eyes calm and alert. “Like what sort of knowledge?”  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow.  _Interesting._ He hadn’t asked Aster that question, because Aster had moved onto promising that they could use the lab as a sanctuary and that the potions he had left behind, like the Felix Felicis, had no traps on them. Draco had been more interested in that than the specific knowledge he promised.  
  
But he did wonder, now, exactly what rituals or spells Aster could reveal to them. He turned to face the portrait, and saw a savage smile on his face.  
  
“I need to know what your power is like, first,” said Aster. “There are some spells that you can’t perform without a great deal of strength.”  
  
Potter and Draco exchanged a look. Then Potter shrugged and said, “I could do a Patronus at thirteen.”  
  
Aster was studying him again, eyes as intent as if he suspected Potter would turn into an enemy. “But you’re a Dark wizard instead of a Light one?”  
  
“That’s my affinity,” said Potter. “Are you going to hand us anything useful or not?”  
  
Draco choked a little. “He’s being  _helpful_ ,” he muttered to Potter, and didn’t try to keep the reproachful tone out of his voice.   
  
“Not so far.” Potter folded his arms, a gesture that made him look extraordinarily stubborn, as though waves could dash at him and not move him from his place. Draco had to wonder where that stubbornness had been when the Ministry was the one trying to move him.  
  
“It’s a fair question,” said Aster, although Draco thought he saw a flash of clenched teeth. “There is one particular spell that might be helpful. It reveals the thoughts a particular person has concerning you. It makes them audible as a small voice murmuring directly beside their ear.  _They_ can’t hear it, because they think it’s only the voice of their thoughts. The spell’s only limitation is that you can’t cast it in front of anyone who isn’t a co-conspirator of yours, because someone else not targeted by the spell can hear it.”  
  
Potter nodded, and dropped his arms. “What’s the incantation?”  
  
Aster started to speak, and then paused and regarded Potter. “Perhaps someone with your power can manage to perform it on the first try, after all,” he murmured. Regardless of whether that was true, Draco thought, Aster would try, because he wanted to see what Potter’s magic was like. “The wand movement is like this.” He raised a hand, his two middle fingers clamped together and pointed out, and swept them in a little flick as if he was tracing a backwards capital J in the air. “The incantation is  _Audio mentem_.”  
  
Potter repeated the Latin words to himself for a moment, as though checking them for traps, and then nodded shortly and raised his wand. For a second, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Draco had no idea what he thought he was doing.   
  
He exchanged a look with Aster, and saw Aster’s lip curled. Maybe their ancestor didn’t like Potter’s dramatics any more than Draco did.  
  
But Potter murmured the spell and performed the incantation as flawlessly as he could, Draco thought. Yet nothing seemed to happen. Draco stared at Potter. What was he doing? Did he think that using a Dark spell would make a difference to the way he felt about himself now, or that the Ministry could tell he had cast it without a test?  
  
“No. But I  _am_ interested in the amount of antagonism I can hear in your thoughts,” said Potter dryly.  
  
 _Of course he targeted me with the bloody spell._ Draco breathed in to overcome his anger. “You realize that I’ll do the same thing to you.”  
  
“Yes,” said Potter. He leaned back gently against the wall and murmured, “ _Finite_ ,” canceling the spell, Draco hoped. It was extraordinarily disconcerting, not being able to tell whether he was keeping his thoughts to himself or not. Draco reckoned that was probably part of the reason the Ministry had designated this spell as Dark.  
  
“Right now,” Draco added, and glanced up at Aster once more. Aster, who was observing them with an intent, entertained expression, obligingly demonstrated the wand movement again.  
  
“All right.” Potter still didn’t flinch, and Draco concealed an irritated sigh as he lined up so that his wand was aimed at Potter in the right way and he wouldn’t hit the portrait with the spell. Where was this defiance when it came to the Ministry? Why did it take so long for Potter to realize who his actual enemies were?  
  
“ _Audio mentem_ ,” Draco murmured, and this time, he felt the little tingle of power pass through his own wand, something he hadn’t been able to feel, of course, when it came to Potter. Potter narrowed his eyes for a second as though squinting into strong sun, and Draco experienced a momentary spasm of doubt. He  _hoped_ that he’d been able to cast it right the first time. It would be embarrassing if he didn’t.  
  
“He’s annoying.”  
  
Draco started. The voice sounded exactly like Potter’s, and it was all too clear, from the way Potter blinked at Draco, that he didn’t hear it.  
  
“He thinks I’m not doing enough. What exactly am I supposed to be doing? I’m not going to cast Dark spells that maim and torture people, but this sort of spell is okay. He’s probably not going to accept it until I torture someone, though.”  
  
Draco canceled the spell with a furious flick of his wand, and stalked up to Potter. Potter watched him come with an infuriating calm.  
  
“You could at least  _look_ as though you respect me,” Draco snapped.  
  
“No offense, but I’ve been intimidated by the best, and you’re not Voldemort  _or_ Snape,” Potter said, and then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Why is it so easy for us to fall back into this rivalry?”  
  
Draco was about to tell him why—because Potter had never valued him enough, from day one—but Aster cleared his throat. Draco turned to face his ancestor. After a moment, so did Potter.   
  
“I can tell you why,” said Aster. “And this is without knowing much about your history. You’re too much alike. You’re both proud. You both think that the other person should respect your skills and your power without demonstration. You, Mr. Potter, think that Mr. Malfoy should share your moral standards, because they’re self-evident.” He nodded at Draco before the smug expression Draco could feel forming on his face could take full shape. “And you, Mr. Malfoy, think that Mr. Potter should turn on the people who betrayed him  _because_ they betrayed him.”  
  
“Why not? It makes sense!”  
  
There was an odd echo to his words, and for a moment, Draco thought that Potter had used that spell again, or he hadn’t canceled the one that let him hear Potter’s thoughts. Then he realized he and Potter had spoken at the same time.  
  
They glared at each other.  
  
The way Aster cleared his throat had a distinct sound of laughter in it. “Why don’t you talk about this more? All of the spells and rituals I can teach you are useless if you work against each other instead of together.”  
  
And he walked out of his portrait, which answered Draco’s question about whether he could move. Draco frowned and turned to Potter. “You drove him away.”  
  
“I think that he left for exactly the reason he said he did, to give us time to talk about it,” said Potter, and walked past Draco towards the entrance of the lab. “Why don’t we go upstairs and get Parkinson and Astoria out of hiding? They might not know they can come out yet. And I’m hungry. We can have tea and a discussion.”  
  
Draco followed, attempting to get his fuming under control. How dare Potter sound like the reasonable one?  
  
 _You don’t have to do the opposite of what your father does to make your point,_ his mother’s voice said abruptly in the back of his head, startling Draco so badly he almost wondered if someone had cast that spell on him again. But no, this was the way she had spoken to him after some long-ago quarrel with his father in which Draco had tried to make the point that he was enough of an adult to be trusted with magic that Lucius didn’t want to teach him. And then he’d gone off and cast it anyway when his father refused, and his mother had visited him in his room to make her little speech.  
  
 _There are other roles for you than his enemy._  
  
Draco swallowed back longing for his parents and nodded. Good advice then, good advice now. He would have to take it.   
  
He followed Potter’s unyielding back down the corridor and up the twisting steps back into the house proper.  
  
*  
  
“You should dust your secret passages more often, Potter.”  
  
Harry gave Parkinson a mechanical smile, keeping his eyes mostly on the teacups and scones that Kreacher had made for him, and away from Malfoy. The portrait’s cynical words still echoed in Harry’s ears, and so did the knowledge that Aurors had come and investigated his house while he was out.  
  
He couldn’t trust the Ministry, that much was official now, and he didn’t even know if he could trust his allies. Was it his letter to Kingsley that had alerted the Ministry something wasn’t right? Even though Harry had tried to be so careful?  
  
And was his old rivalry with Malfoy going to damn any effort they made against the Ministry before it could get started?  
  
At least Malfoy didn’t seem inclined to complain right now. He was sitting in the chair on the other side of Astoria, talking to her in a soft, individual murmur that was easing the pinched look from her face. Harry gave her a compassionate look she didn’t have to return. He supposed it couldn’t be easy for a sixteen-year-old to be hunted from her home like a fugitive, and then nearly suffer the same fate in what she had been assured was a safe sanctuary.  
  
Malfoy had already told Parkinson and Astoria about Aster, but neither seemed inclined to bring it up until after their tea, when Parkinson put her cup in Kreacher’s hand without even looking at the little elf and asked Harry, “What are we going to do about Aurors intruding when you’re not here?”  
  
“There’s a spell I know,” Harry began reluctantly. He had read it in what now seemed that heady, sunny month after the war before the Lightfinder had been made public, when he had gone to funerals and helped take care of George and spent time with his friends and read whatever he wanted. He had come across the spell in a book that had some banned magic in it, and laughed. He couldn’t imagine wanting to use it.  
  
“Well?” Parkinson prompted impatiently.  
  
Harry grimaced and said, “It’s a ward that interferes with memory because it makes you laugh so hard at something innocuous that happens after you cross it, you forget all about what you’d gone into the place to do.”  
  
Parkinson’s eyebrows rose and stayed there, appearing plastered against her fringe. Then she twitched her head a little and murmured, “Well, if that’s the way it has to be.”  
  
“And this spell isn’t classified as Dark?” Malfoy interrupted.  
  
Harry told himself, again, that he and Malfoy had to get along for everybody’s sake, and that Malfoy had probably only spoken that way because he was impatient to get the details and see the spells cast. Not because he wanted to insult Harry or thought Harry couldn’t do it. “No. Because it makes people laugh instead of having another effect, they decided that it wasn’t dangerous enough.”  
  
“But it interferes with memory,” said Astoria, speaking up and then ducking her face back behind her hair when Harry turned to her. Harry wished she wouldn’t. It made her look fearful instead of strong, and he doubted that was really true.  
  
“It does,” Harry agreed. “In fact, it interferes enough that the person who touches the ward will imagine that they  _did_ do whatever they came to do. But Memory Charms are legal, and they couldn’t make this illegal without touching those, too.”  
  
“What fascinating books you did read, Potter,” Malfoy murmured. “The only question is why this didn’t make you rebel against the Ministry  _earlier_.”  
  
 _So that thought I heard wasn’t a passing one,_ Harry thought, blinking at Malfoy for a second. Having Harry as an ally now wasn’t enough. Malfoy wondered why he hadn’t rebelled earlier, and he probably took any questioning that Harry did of him now personally, because it felt as though Harry was still more suspicious of Malfoy than he was of the Ministry.  
  
Harry could at least answer the question, although he didn’t know if it would lay Malfoy’s suspicions to rest. “I don’t think the Ministry is  _good,_ exactly, but they told me what the Lightfinder supposedly detected, and I thought they knew better than me. That they were closer to the Light.”  
  
Malfoy’s face closed a little. “And you can’t stop thinking that we were closer to the Dark.”  
  
Harry was proud of himself, because he didn’t glance at Malfoy’s left arm. “Yeah. I’m still getting used to thinking of this as my affinity.” He swallowed back other things that he wanted to say, and would have if they were alone, but not in front of Malfoy’s friends. “But I’m going to employ that spell Aster taught us against Splinter tomorrow, if I’m alone with him, which I probably will be. And that ought to cure me pretty fast of any lingering fondness in that direction.”  
  
Malfoy spent a moment staring, then nodded slowly. “In the meantime, what is our longer-term plan? What happened when you discussed the Soul Revelation Spell with them this morning?”  
  
“I got wands pointed at me, and Splinter telling me it was an aggressive action.” Harry winced a little at the bitterness of the memory, which had faded somewhat while he was talking to Aster and fighting with Malfoy. “They  _really_ didn’t want me to perform it. Even on myself. They said it would be aggressive.”  
  
“Then you have to,” said Parkinson simply. “Don’t you want to know what they want to hide from you?”  
  
Harry half-shrugged. “My only problem with that idea is that if they figure out I did it, they might take it for direct defiance and imprison me or something. Fat lot of good I’d be able to do then.”  
  
“I can see that.” Malfoy leaned forwards with his hands pressing on the table. “But I think we need to know whatever it was they didn’t want you to find out. Do it after you’ve put up the wards that will make them forget about what they came for.”  
  
Harry nodded. Malfoy’s news had taken the impact away from Kreacher’s story of the Aurors intruding, but the more he thought about it, the angrier he felt. At least, with most Dark wizards they didn’t trust, the Ministry would simply enter the house when the wizard was home, arrest them, and dig through their artifacts or books or whatever other objects had provoked their suspicions. They didn’t have to sneak in like they were spying on him.  
  
 _Even though that’s probably exactly what they’re doing._  
  
As he stood to cast the wards, he paused and put his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy turned around and stared at him in absolute shock. Astoria ducked her head, but continued watching them, and Parkinson found something intensely interesting to look at on the opposite wall.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry told him. “I don’t mean to be like this. We’re in this together, and it’s hard to change my thinking all at once, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to do it.”  
  
Malfoy licked his lips, visibly swallowed whatever he’d been about to say, and then mumbled, “I think—I think I was too quick to blame you for not turning your back on the Ministry right away, too, Potter. If you had, it wouldn’t have boded anything good for  _us._ ”  
  
Harry smiled, said, “Thanks,” and went outside to begin casting the wards.


	9. News of the Unhappy Kind

By the time that he'd finished raising the ward that would afflict the Aurors with laughter and memory loss if they dared to invade again, Harry felt a lot calmer. He could lean limply back against the side of the house and watch the colors of the sunset stain the sky, and feel, for a moment, as if he was a normal wizard with a physically demanding job, just enjoying a well-earned rest after a long day.  
  
" _Harry_."  
  
Then another voice he hadn't heard in too long called his name, and reminded him of why he wasn't.  
  
Harry turned around warily. Hermione hadn't called him openly, the way she would if nothing was wrong. The voice had emerged from outside his wards, both sets, from a point of air that meant Hermione must be using the Disillusionment Charm.  
  
Harry stepped up to the wards and stretched out a hand as if inspecting the new lines of magic he had just laid down. Then he pushed his fingers past the line, and wriggled them. Someone could cross them if they took hold of his hand, and the older wards shouldn't stop Hermione, who had permission to be here from before.  
  
A fleeting shadow brushed his hand, then the unexpected grasp of fingers, almost shockingly strong when he couldn't see them coming. Harry turned and brought his arm back to his side as naturally as possible in case someone was watching, and then turned around and drew Hermione close into his arms.  
  
"Go into the house," he whispered into her ear. "The kitchen only. Keep the Charm on. Don't be surprised by anything you find there."  
  
Hermione drew in her breath sharply as if she wanted to object, but Harry had already propelled her on her way with a little push. He stood for a moment after that, still admiring the colors of the sunset. But his breath had gone shallow, and when he pushed his fringe back from his forehead, he felt the sweat.  
  
 _No normal life, ever again._  
  
*  
  
Draco lifted his head when he heard the door open and shut. There was no distinctive sound of Potter, though. Despite sharing a house with him for such a short time, Draco had already noticed that there were ways Potter walked, as though he was almost stabbing his heels into the floor, that no one else did.  
  
That could only mean a stranger had entered the house.   
  
Draco gave a thin smile and stood up, his hand on his wand. Pansy and Astoria silenced at once, and Pansy drew her own wand while Astoria leaned back in the embrace of the chair, watching them both.  
  
If this was another Auror, Draco intended to use the spell that Aster had gifted them with. That way, he could know right away if the Aurors had any suspicion that Draco, or his friends, or any other Slytherins, were hiding with Potter. He would just have to make sure he could cast it nonverbally, which might take more than one try.  
  
Draco thought he had the time, though. An Auror who would stroll boldly through Potter's front door would probably stick around, instead of running at the first unusual sight or flicker of magic.  
  
Draco cast a minor Notice-Me-Not charm and came slowly down the stairs, edging sideways so that he would have even less chance of being seen. The soft footsteps still came from beneath him, not as bold as Draco had expected. Perhaps the Auror had enchanted Potter or sneaked past him, and that meant they would be more cautious than Draco had expected after all.  
  
When Draco's head came around the wall at the bottom of the stairs, he saw nothing at all, although he distinctly heard sounds in the kitchen--and from the angle he was standing at, he should have been able to see into it. For a second, he blinked, disconcerted, and wondering if the Auror had stolen Potter's Invisibility Cloak.  
  
Then he rolled his eyes at himself. _Disillusionment Charm. Of course._ He aimed his wand towards the sounds and breathed, " _Finite_."  
  
The charm rippled and vanished, and Granger stood there, head turning around sharply when she found that she was visible again. Draco hastily pulled his head back behind the wall, cursing to himself. Had Potter even _thought_ about the trouble Granger could cause if she found Slytherins hiding with him?  
  
 _Of course not. Probably not. He probably told her to just come in. Or she did it on her own, because she thinks that Potter's bloody house should also be hers--_  
  
Draco caught himself up quickly. If Granger was under a Disillusionment Charm, that suggested she was trying to avoid someone, at the least. And Potter hadn't seemed, right before he went outside to cast the wards, as though he was in a hostile mood towards Draco and the others. He must have thought about it, maybe even warned Granger.  
  
"Don't panic if something strange happens to me, right," Granger muttered to herself just then. A second later, Draco heard her making tea.  
  
Draco relaxed muscle by muscle. So Potter had warned Granger, in a way, but without giving their secret away. It was still their choice if they wanted to meet Granger face-to-face.   
  
It was the best compromise Potter could have managed under the circumstances, clearly. If this went on, Draco would have to think that Potter was capable of subtlety and nuance, after all.  
  
 _I'm not sure I want to do that,_ Draco admitted, with a slight grimace to himself, and went back up to Pansy and Astoria. They hadn't got much of a chance to talk today, and he would rather do that than socialize with Granger, at least until he knew what her reaction would be.  
  
*  
  
Harry stepped back into the kitchen, and blinked to find Hermione visible. She shook her head at him, small curls of frizzy hair escaping to hang around her mouth, and tucked it back. "Not my doing. Someone upstairs took off the charm."  
  
 _Malfoy. Of course._ Harry sat down in his usual chair. "One of my guests," he said, and although Hermione nodded, her eyes bright with curiosity, she didn't push it. "What is it?"  
  
For a moment, Hermione's hands clenched around the spoon she was using to stir her tea. Then she looked at him and said, "They put Bill through the Lightfinder."  
  
Harry hissed a little despite himself. "Well, at least I'm awake now, the way you wanted me to be," he muttered. He _hoped_ the news of Bill would have been enough to wake him up if Malfoy hadn't, but he honestly wasn't sure. "I trust they found him Dark?"  
  
Hermione tried to swallow, but her words were locked behind what sounded like a large and solid lump. She shook her head, took a swallow of tea that Harry knew had to be scalding, and continued, "Indigo. They've confined him."  
  
Harry closed one hand into a fist fast enough that his nails made a ringing scrape on the table. "And what excuse did they give?"  
  
"Because--because of his heritage and his record, they think he was Light and only tainted by Fenrir Greyback's touch." Hermione peered at him around one strand of hair. "They--think they can cure him with Wolfsdemon."  
  
"With _what_?"  
  
"You need to read the papers more," Hermione snapped at him, a conclusion Harry had already come to. At least she sounded angry and in control again, and that was a Hermione he found easier to deal with. Hermione leaned forwards and rapped one finger on the table. "Wolfsdemon is this new potion that some people are promoting because they say it kills the infection right out of someone. It kills the wolf and leaves the person alive."  
  
Harry stared at her in silent horror.  
  
"I know," said Hermione, and seized her cup to swallow again. "I think it's terrible. But there are werewolves who support it because they hope it's an actual cure, and supposedly the initial tests are promising, and--and people are afraid." She set the teacup down and stared at Harry bleakly. "I thought things were getting _better_ after the war. How did people become this afraid?"  
  
"Maybe the fear is the opposite side of the hope. They thought they were going to have an easy way to identify Dark wizards, and that made them go mental when they realized how many Dark wizards were walking around." Harry reached out and caught Hermione's hand, holding it still when he thought it would twitch. "What made them test Bill?"  
  
"They heard him saying something to someone else," said Hermione tiredly, blinking. Harry cast a Warming Charm on her tea without being asked, and Hermione picked up her cup and started drinking again with her free hand. "That's what Fleur said when I asked. He was complaining about the way you were being treated, I think." She looked up with a grim smile. "And who could have sympathy for a Dark wizard except another Dark wizard?"   
  
"Then--Hermione, you shouldn't have come here." Harry gripped Hermione's hand even more firmly. "They could decide you were Dark and imprison you in the same way--"  
  
" _No_." Hermione said it so firmly that for a second Harry thought she meant she'd gone through the Lightfinder and tested red or orange. But then she leaned towards him and said in a fierce undertone, "This has gone far enough. That's what I was trying to tell you last time. You have to do something about it, Harry. _Something_. You can use your name and influence in a way that lots of people can't. I _know_ you can. I want you to do something that will stop this."  
  
Harry blinked and spoke the truth before he could stop it. "You want me to save the world."  
  
Hermione closed her eyes, and a tide of color crept into her cheeks. "Not alone," she said stiffly, keeping her head turned away. "Not the way you did with Voldemort. I'm sorry--I wasn't thinking..."  
  
Harry sighed and squeezed her hand in a soft, regular pattern until she opened her eyes again. "Neither was I," he said. "You meant that you think I need to join the fight to stand up against the Lightfinder, and other people are more likely to follow me than someone else."  
  
Hermione nodded fervently, her hair sticking to her forehead. "Exactly. And I think you need to do the same thing for _you_ , because the way they're treating you is outrageous."  
  
Harry nodded back. "I know. They had Aurors invade my house earlier today while I was with Splinter being tested for Lethe."  
  
Hermione's mouth opened, her lips parting in silent outrage. Of course, since she was Hermione, her outrage wasn't silent for long. " _What?_ How could they do that? Why were they here?"  
  
"I think they thought I'm being rebellious already, and they were looking for Dark magical books or anything else that could cause this behavior." Harry changed the subject back to what he thought was more urgent. "Where do they have Bill?"  
  
"In Azkaban."  
  
Harry sat up with a startled sound, and Hermione caught his hand in turn. "They said it was the only kind of cell that someone with a werewolf's strength couldn't break out of," she said. "I hate it, too, Harry, but you can't tell me that you mean to charge the guards or something. That would only get you a cell beside him."  
  
Harry forced himself to nod and sit back down. He had to think of how he was going to do this, as someone already under scrutiny and someone who might be trying to start a rebellion that had to be kept secret fairly soon.  
  
But they wanted to spread the word at the same time. And Harry thought that being able to point to someone who had always been considered part of a "Light" pure-blood family as a victim of the Ministry's prejudice would be more effective than immediately trying to point at Slytherins.  
  
"All right," said Harry. "There's someone I need to talk to, because they might have a more concrete plan to help Bill. But I don't know if you want to come with me when I talk to them. Or if they want you there," he had to add, in complete honesty. Malfoy might refuse to work with Hermione on general principles.  
  
If he did it because of her Muggleborn background, then Harry would refuse to work with _him_ on general principles. But so many things had changed now, this might also have done so.  
  
Harry was sure Malfoy had been the one who'd dissipated Hermione's Disillusionment Charm when she came into the kitchen. But he hadn't attacked her. Harry would take that as a favorable sign for the present.  
  
Hermione cocked her head back and narrowed her eyes. "Harry, who are you hiding?"  
  
"Several people," said Harry, and had to grin a little at her look of shock. She probably thought he wouldn't begin his rebellion until she brought him word of Bill's imprisonment. "But like I said, I have to decide whether they'll want to talk to you."  
  
"Why would they refuse?" Hermione turned and stared at the stairs. "Or why would I?" She glanced back at Harry, her eyes narrowed. "That's the more relevant question, isn't it?"  
  
"Because they're Dark wizards," Harry said quietly. "Not proved as such by the Lightfinder. Sure of their affiliation, though. One's wanted. One's been tried, but is still wanted." He met and held Hermione's gaze.  
  
Hermione made what looked like a conscious effort to relax. "Well, you're a Dark wizard, too," she muttered, as if convincing herself. "I hope--Harry, is it going to be all right?"  
  
Harry supposed that people must have some kind of instinctive need to turn to him in a crisis. But it was at least more understandable with Hermione than with someone who didn't know him from Dumbledore. He bent down and kissed her forehead. "I'm going to make it as all right as it can be. And we stand a better chance working together with other people."  
  
Hermione looked at him with troubled eyes. "As long as they're not Death Eaters, or--or people who did something really wrong in the war."  
  
Harry turned around to hide his grimace. Based on that criterion, Astoria might be the only one she was comfortable working with. "Well, let me go and talk to them," he said, and took the stairs before she could ask him anything else.  
  
*  
  
Draco leaned back as Potter came into the room. "I would be willing to work with Granger if I can trust that she won't betray us, or make converting us more important than fighting the Ministry," he said.  
  
Potter blinked only once, and then seemed to accept both what Draco knew and what he was saying, to Draco's private relief. He sat down across from Draco. "My friend Bill Weasley is in prison," he said. "Someone overheard him saying something supportive of me, and he tested indigo in the Lightfinder."  
  
Draco blinked, a little surprised at that. He honestly would have thought that most Weasleys would have a Light affinity.   
  
But you didn't choose your affinity, and Draco couldn't afford to neglect any potential allies in this conflict. The only thing he wanted to be _absolutely_ sure of was that they wouldn't betray him because he had been acknowledged as Dark for longer than they had. "I assume that his werewolf scars don't help, either," Draco murmured.  
  
Potter leaned in. "The werewolf scars that _you_ gave him, Malfoy."  
  
Draco held his gaze, and nodded. "And I'll apologize for that to him. Not to you."  
  
Pansy touched Draco's shoulder in the second before Potter decided to accept that. "Fine," he said. "But for now, we need to figure out some strategy to get him out of there as soon as we can."  
  
"And in the long run, that depends on finding allies and strengthening your position as someone who's an innocent victim of Ministry prejudice," Draco pointed out. He wanted to hammer Potter with that idea, to keep it in front of his eyes as much as necessary. Charging to the daring rescue wasn't the point. Finding a way to make sure that the Ministry was ultimately defeated was the point. "They aren't going to kill him. Being in Azkaban is no treat, but they would have done something else if they were going to kill him."  
  
"Being there is a sentence _no one_ deserves."  
  
Draco looked at him in silence, forcing him to remember that a lot of Death Eaters had been sentenced there.  
  
Potter flushed and looked away. "You can't argue that Bill deserves it, anyway."  
  
Because talking about their past was a waste of time, given the circular arguments it produced, Draco accepted that with a nod. "I don't think that that particular Weasley has done anything worthy of being sent to prison in the first place. The problem is that you need to raise a protest that will not just get him out of prison, but prevent it from happening again, or happening to anyone else."  
  
Potter looked as though he was swallowing a particularly bitter potion. "I know you're right. It's just hard to think about it."  
  
"I say that you should bring Granger up and introduce us," Pansy cut in. Draco leaned back into her briefly. She was the practical one, the one who saw past considerations that tended to preoccupy Draco to the basic and fundamental truths. "As long as you think it's safe for me to talk to her."  
  
Potter peered at her in incomprehension for a second, but his face cleared before Draco could start fearing for his sanity. "Oh. Right. Yes." He hesitated, and looked at Draco. "Can an Unbreakable Vow be modified?"  
  
Draco blinked once. "It can usually only be fulfilled."   
  
"Then that's another thing we need to research," said Potter. "The Vow I had Parkinson make was a bit too broad." He turned back to Pansy. "You can leave the room if you want. I'll tell Hermione that you're here, but also what restrictions you're under."  
  
Pansy nodded and slipped away. Draco concealed a smile. Pansy had considered Granger more unbending and self-righteous than Potter in Hogwarts, therefore more irritating. She might be glad that she wasn't accidentally going to ruin their plans, but she would also be more than happy to put off a meeting with Granger for a while.  
  
"Fine," Draco said, leaning back. "Bring the dreaded Muggleborn upstairs."  
  
*  
  
Harry was right behind Hermione, and he could feel the shudder of disgust that rang through her body when she stepped into the room and saw Malfoy waiting for her. But she straightened her spine, and her glance at Astoria was only considering. Maybe she didn't recognize her, but at least she didn't have the same past memories attached that she did to Malfoy. Hermione swallowed. "Malfoy," she said.  
  
"Granger." Give Malfoy credit, his tone was at least neutral and business-like, Harry thought. He turned his head to Harry, and blinked once. "Does she agree that we should wait to stage a raid on Azkaban?"  
  
"She does." Harry made his voice dry. Perhaps Hermione and the Slytherins could find a common ground in their attempts to combat his impulsiveness. "Though I would like to still hear about a way we could help Bill."  
  
"We need more allies." Hermione walked across the room and sat down across from Malfoy, in Harry's abandoned chair, with only a twitch of her shoulders to indicate her discomfort. "Four of us aren't going to be enough."  
  
"No," Malfoy concurred, though Harry saw the spark in his eyes that must mark the moment when he considered reminding her about Parkinson, who Harry had mentioned on their way up the stairs, and then discarded the impulse. "The main problem is knowing who to trust. I have a few friends and allies, but they'll be closely watched by the Aurors as well. And I have no idea who among the Light wizards is trustworthy."  
  
"I know one person I'm sure won't betray us," said Hermione. "Neville Longbottom."  
  
Malfoy made a swift gesture with one hand, but then cut it off. Harry thought he'd probably remembered the old Neville for a moment, the shy, clumsy Potions-whatever-the-opposite-of-a-geniu

s-was, and then remembered the one who had cut off Nagini's head instead. "Does he really have the political clout to help us, though?"

"Right now, we need trustworthy allies more than we need politically influential ones," Hermione snapped, and her chin jutted out, leading the way as it usually did when she argued with Malfoy. "He's one."

"And he is a war hero, if not one as instantly recognizable as I am," Harry added, hoping to calm things down. "He might even be more popular right now, since the news about me being tainted has come out."

" _Dark_."

Harry blinked at Malfoy. "What? You think Neville is Dark? Or what I just did is a Dark action?" Despite all his commitments to a truce with Malfoy, sometimes Harry felt as if they stood on opposite sides of a gap of incomprehension.

"You're Dark. Not tainted." Malfoy's fingernails scraped the table as he stared at Harry. "Not that word. I don't want to hear you say it again."

"Well, _really_ ," Hermione said, and even Astoria looked a little surprised. But Harry, who couldn't take his gaze from Malfoy, thought he understood.

Malfoy couldn't tolerate certain attitudes from Harry, because he had to have a hundred percent confidence in him. It was the way Harry couldn't have worked with Malfoy if he was still flinging the word "Mudblood" around. Too many flaws in their trust would make them doubt the whole idea of the alliance, and it would fall apart without at least the fragile trust they'd put together before Harry went out to do the wards.

Malfoy wanted Harry to claim his affinity. Fine. He could do that. He had already done it the minute he let the Slytherins into his house, anyway.

"Dark," he replied, and watched a tide of relaxation wash over Malfoy. He leaned back, and his smile sharpened.

"I think Longbottom might be just the ally we need," he said. "Especially if he can get together with Blaise, who already took a huge risk to help us."

And the moment passed, and soon Malfoy and Hermione were plotting, and arguing, as if they had worked together before. Harry stayed out of it, much like Astoria, unless someone asked his opinion. His gaze didn't often stray from Malfoy.

The man was more interesting than Harry had expected. 


	10. Messengers to the World

"I still don't like it. I had to tell you that."  
  
Harry paused and looked down into Hermione's face. He had escorted her into the kitchen so they could say good-bye and she could leave, cloaked in Disillusionment, through the front door. It was safer than trying the warded Floo.  
  
"You don't like what?" Harry had to ask, because no matter how long Hermione stood there and gave him that peculiarly piercing look, he wasn't picking up on whatever she wanted him to pick up on.  
  
"Working with Death Eaters," said Hermione. "Other people I can stomach. They didn't do as much bad during the war as some of the exaggerated rumors make out. Or they did it to survive. But Malfoy..." She shivered a little. "No matter how indecisive he was, he still stood there and let Voldemort brand _that_ on his flesh."  
  
"Then why did you work with him?" Harry asked, bewildered. It wasn't like Hermione to sit there and subdue her natural criticism of something or someone when she had already proclaimed that she would talk about it.  
  
Hermione sighed, and for a second, her head drooped as though she was finding it too heavy to hold up. "Because I could see in your eyes how much you already trust and rely on him. He's the one who's giving you the impetus to rebel against the Ministry." She looked up, and this time, her gaze was searching. "He was _also_ the one who gave you the information about Dark and Light affinities in the first place, isn't he?"  
  
Harry didn't look away, because that might make Hermione think he felt guilty, and actually, nothing could be further from the truth. "Yeah," he muttered. "It--it makes sense, Hermione. I don't think the Lightfinder works exactly the way the Ministry says it does. I think the Ministry has to be stopped."  
  
Hermione's hand found his and squeezed firmly. "I know that," she said. "I'm not sure that the methods Malfoy will come up with are the best ways to do it." She hesitated, and then abruptly flung her arms around him. Harry, startled, hugged her back, and her face nestled into his chest the way it had sometimes on the Horcrux hunt.  
  
"I know that someone has to stop them," she whispered. "And you have the determination and the strength to do it. And I'm _trusting_ you, Harry, trusting you to know what's best, and that is the _only_ reason I'm working with Malfoy at all. I'm trusting you not to have made a mistake, the same way you trusted me all those years." She drew back and gave him a direct stare. "Don't make a mistake."  
  
Harry nodded, touched, beyond words. Hermione had not only given him the same trust he had always thought she would, in putting him above the rules, but she was also laying her principles on the line for him. He squeezed her hand and finally managed to come up with the words he had to use. "I don't think it's a mistake."  
  
"Good," said Hermione, and then she turned and cast the Charm and left the kitchen without another word. There really wasn't anything else she had to say, Harry supposed.  
  
He stood there and breathed for a little while, and then he went upstairs and back to Malfoy and the others.  
  
*  
  
Draco clutched his wand hard enough that he thought for a second it would snap. But then he forced himself to put his hands in his pockets, loosen his hold on his wand, and walk with the swagger that the man he was glamoured as would feel. He was taking a risk, trying to meet with Blaise in Knockturn Alley, but going into the Ministry would have been riskier.  
  
Knockturn Alley still hummed with Dark magic and the sound of trading that it always had, despite the public's panic over Dark wizards. Draco curled his lip. The Light wizards in control of the Ministry might bleat about wanting every trace of "evil" in their world eradicated, but they also wanted illegal ingredients sometimes, or forbidden pleasures. Knockturn Alley had survived all these years by being too useful to destroy.  
  
It was Draco's job right now to see to it that that went on being true, rather than the Ministry succumbing to panic or public pressure and destroying it whether or not they wanted to.  
  
"Landover! I haven't seen you here in years!" Blaise's voice said heartily from his left, and he came up and slapped Draco on the back. "Do you think you can spare the time for a drink? Or are you going to stalk off again, the way you did to me the last time we met?" He stood slightly in front of Draco so anyone watching them from the main street would find it hard to read Draco's face.  
  
Draco adopted the peculiar cringing sneer that Henry Landover would use if he was so bold as to come here. The Landovers were a minor wizarding family who claimed descent from a bastard child of one of Draco's ancestors, even though magical testing had proven long ago that was false. They played out a minor version of the politics that had obsessed Draco's father, and they would do things like come into Knockturn Alley thinking it was a grand adventure.  
  
"I'm not going to _stalk_ off," he said, and it wasn't a problem to raise his voice a little and adopt the whining tone that was also natural to the Landovers. "I was coming to see you, in fact." He made an attempt at a smile that Blaise returned with a predatory grin.  
  
"Of course you were," said Blaise, and then turned and led Draco swiftly towards the other end of the Alley. Draco followed him with his head down, his gaze darting from side to side as if he was nervous about the beings of greater power he might encounter here--also a natural reaction for a Landover. Draco wouldn't have felt such contempt for them if they'd merely had the power to match their pretensions.  
  
But no one was looking at him. Instead, people scurried around with their heads down, even more than usual, and there were fewer hags and warlocks parading down the middle of the pavement, daring anyone to object about stepping aside for them. Draco nodded grimly. The Ministry might not have the courage or the strength to destroy Knockturn Alley after all, but the worry was being felt here.  
  
"Here," said Blaise, and jerked his head to a stone doorway that looked like the entrance to a dragon's lair. Draco willingly ducked in, and sighed when he felt the wards engage behind him, snapping together like the edges of a Muggle zipper.  
  
"You're sure that no one is going to find us here?" he asked, turning around.  
  
Blaise had his wand drawn, adding an extra layer of protection to the wards. He shook his head without looking at Draco. "This is one of the places where my mum hid--well, some of the bodies," he said, and turned around, gesturing to the table in the center of the room. "Sit down and eat, if you want. I had it cleaned."  
  
Draco grunted his thanks and stepped up to the wide table, made of age-darkened wood, the only furniture of any size in the Zabini lair. The rest was mostly cauldrons or the sort of tiny stools that one could balance cauldrons on. And while there _were_ stains on the table that made him a little uneasy, it had been scrubbed and bore wide china plates of cut cheese and fruit, and that was the best anyone could ask for.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Blaise asked Draco, coming up behind him as he hungrily ate a few fat strawberries. There were just some things Potter's house-elf couldn't do well.  
  
Draco paused and looked at him. Blaise's face was blank, but it would be a mistake to think he was passive because of that. "You sound as though you're surrendering yourself to my guidance," Draco said, and swallowed. "Why?"  
  
"Because I know what you're trying to do." Blaise's eyes were wary when he met Draco's, but he was speaking with commendable directness, something that a lot of Dark wizards Draco knew couldn't do. "And I agree with it. This nonsense is going to touch every single one of us sooner or later. Even the people who think they're immune."  
  
He was sneering, and Draco knew he was thinking of someone specific. Still, he didn't want to ask right now. Blaise wasn't the sort who would let grudges interfere with business.  
  
 _The way I once was,_ Draco thought, and took a folded note from his pocket. "We need you to do something. However, I want you to look at it and think about it before you agree. One of Potter's little friends would do it without thought, but it's incredibly dangerous."  
  
Blaise smiled a bit as he took up the note. "So you did manage to convince Potter to accept an alliance? He's under suspicion in the Ministry now, you know. They think he doesn't have enough of a stick up his arse or something." He unfolded the parchment.  
  
"I know," said Draco. "Several Aurors came into his house the other day looking for whatever influenced him."  
  
Blaise twitched. "And they didn't catch you?"  
  
"The Black house is friendly to a Black," Draco said, with a smile. That was all he intended to tell Blaise for now. He was in agreement with Potter that Aster and the secret passages were some of their most important weapons, and shouldn't be revealed until they had to do it. They could easily enough pretend that the old spells Aster was showing them came from books in the large Black library. "And I want you to _think_ about this."  
  
Blaise read through the instructions slowly. Then he leaned back and stared at Draco. "Is this a long-range plan or a short-term one?"  
  
"Short-term," said Draco quietly, and stared back.  
  
Blaise looked down at the parchment again. Draco saw his hands tremble. He frowned and opened his mouth. He had come to Blaise because Blaise worked in the Ministry, wasn't yet under suspicion or on the list of people to be tested in the Lightfinder, and had some of his mother's talent for eluding suspicion. But fear could cause people to make mistakes, and Blaise was his friend.  
  
"I want to do it," said Blaise, and his voice was thick. "You have no idea how much I _want_ to do it."  
  
"But?" Draco prompted. The shaking hadn't been fear after all, he thought, but excitement.  
  
"I don't know if they would manage to dismiss it as just another Dark wizard trick." Blaise corkscrewed his neck to the side and squinted at the parchment as if it hid a solution to its own dilemma. "Is there something we can use to show them that this spell is Light instead of Dark, when most people think being Dark is just a matter of a tainted soul?"  
  
Draco relaxed. That was the same objection Potter had come up with, and Pansy had searched until she found a solution--one reason it had taken them four days to put together this plan. "Yes. That's why there's that extra part of the incantation at the beginning there. It causes a huge burst of timed light that will only explode around you when you're finished. Harmless, but it's red. They favor red light at the moment."  
  
Blaise squinted at him. "Draco, no one is stupid enough to believe that it's a Light spell because there's red light when it's cast..."  
  
Then he trailed off. Draco smiled at him and nodded. "Exactly. They were stupid enough to believe in the Lightfinder. And it's that stupidity we're targeting."  
  
That had been the subject of an argument with Potter. He had wanted to work towards a way to show up and announce in front of everyone what Dark and Light affinities really meant, and that Dark wizards weren't all baby-eating puppy-killers. But Draco had pointed out that, for now, the same fear and nonsensical beliefs that had isolated Potter in his house had to be their weapon. Open announcement would come later, when they had enough of a power base.  
  
 _Make them afraid that they'll be summoned and put through the Lightfinder. Publicize the imprisonment so that they wonder if they might suffer the same thing even though they_ know _they're innocent. Herd them in our direction the way the Ministry managed to herd them in theirs._  
  
Not honorable, but Draco was fighting for his life and his freedom, and the safety of people he cared for. He was prepared to be as dishonorable as it took, while clothing his actions in the right cant.  
  
"I don't know that it'll work when they see a Dark wizard casting it, though," Blaise returned to the attack.  
  
"Then don't let them see you casting it," said Draco idly, and tossed a piece of the fruit that he had picked up from the plate from one hand to another, debating eating it now or taking it with him. Practicality won out, and he popped it into his mouth. "I know _you_ know how to bland with a crowd and cast under shelter of your sleeve."  
  
Blaise took one long look at the parchment again, then firmed his mouth and tucked it out of sight. "Can I let my mother help?"  
  
Draco felt himself smile without permission. Angelica Zabini was a woman who had ties everywhere, to relatives of ex-husbands and people who might have become husbands and people benefited by the deaths of those husbands. It was one of the two reasons she had managed to keep out of prison so long after so many deaths, the other being that air of essential innocence Blaise also had. "Isn't her current lover someone in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"  
  
"Aaron Barnes." Blaise grinned. "Yes. He runs a sleepy little office no one pays much attention to, but that makes him perfect for passing messages. And he can get good seats at the crowd entertainments like the Lightfinder operations as long as he doesn't ask for the privilege too often."  
  
Draco nodded back. He honestly didn't know what Blaise's mum saw in a minor Ministry official, but right now, it was going to prove extremely useful. "All right. Then let her do whatever's not going to get her and you caught. And don't leave a trail that leads back to Barnes, either. We might want to use him later."  
  
Blaise sighed elaborately and tucked the spell away in his pocket. "Draco, I was learning how to do this while you were still hitting Greg over the head with your toy broom. Leave it to me."  
  
Draco grinned at him, and bit into his next strawberry.  
  
*  
  
Harry sighed and massaged his temples. He was once again alone in the room where they'd left him to eat lunch, and he thought he was going to lose his fucking mind.  
  
The tests to prepare him for Lethe, or Lethe for him, had turned from strange and seemingly pointless to hard enough to exhaust him. This morning, he'd had to Summon a cup and make sure that he stopped it in midair a meter away from him. Then he had to bring it closer, and then he had to do it nonverbally.  
  
Harry had never before realized that he tended to use all his spells in a huge, burning rush of power, that it was hard for him to stop them or make them more delicate or not complete them all at once. Or that making any of those changes to the basic way he cast magic would _hurt_ so much. His muscles throbbed.  
  
Something silvery glowed in front of him, and Harry looked up. A misty mastiff sat there, staring at him.  
  
Harry looked back at it and tried to remember who he knew that had a mastiff Patronus. Not Kingsley's, that was a lynx, and Ron's was a terrier, and Hermione finally had a silvery otter darting around her every time she cast the spell. Besides, they would still let her talk to him at the Ministry, even if she had to sneak into his house--  
  
The Patronus opened its mouth and said, "Harry, Hermione told me we needed to talk. I'll see you at seven this evening."  
  
Harry gaped for a moment as the Patronus dissolved, and then began to grin and couldn't stop. It continued even as he ate the dry cheese sandwiches the Ministry provided him, and although the Aurors who came in to take him for the next test gave him suspicious stares, Harry could only relax the grin to a normal smile.  
  
That had been Neville's voice.  
  
*  
  
Longbottom came into the library taking up more space than Draco thought he should.   
  
He supposed it had been some time since he had looked at Longbottom, properly _looked_ at him, but even so, he was bigger than he had any right to be. He had grown tall and sturdy, and he listened when people spoke, but he also turned his head and spoke right back to them. His confidence filled more of the room than his voice did, and nearly as much as his long, constantly in-motion limbs did.  
  
Draco sat back and observed him for most of the first hour, while Potter did the talking and Astoria, who had no more history with Longbottom than with any of the other Gryffindors, put in several opinions. Longbottom was courteous enough, but whenever he wasn't talking to Potter, whenever he was only listening, he watched Draco with intense, piercing eyes.  
  
Draco fought to keep a patient smile or a blank mask on his face. Longbottom didn't need to go through the Lightfinder; Draco could tell what he was from the way that his own aura seemed to prickle along in sweat on his skin. _Light. Definitely Light._  
  
Which meant, if the Lightfinder worked at all according to the magical theory that the Ministry had claimed it did, then Longbottom should test red or orange. And that meant they had one ally who should be able to walk around freely after he had his test, and who they never had to worry about being arrested.  
  
If he would just stop looking at Draco with those _eyes_.  
  
"So that's it," Potter wound up his summary of their plan at last. "What do you think, Neville?"  
  
Longbottom leaned forwards and tapped a finger on the table beside the map that showed several places in the interior of the Ministry that they were considering either distributing pamphlets or letting off certain specific spells. "What they're doing to you is outrageous, Harry," he said, his voice deep. "And to Bill."  
  
He turned to Draco. "You, I'm not so sure about."  
  
Draco experienced a shiver that he thought could have been either dislike or distaste. He held Longbottom's gaze and said, "Well. In that case, I've already been tried for my crimes. They should have told me that they _also_ wanted to imprison me for being a Dark wizard. They didn't. They just started hunting for me the minute I left the place of my sentencing. What have I done wrong that I wasn't sentenced for? They don't say."  
  
There was a long moment that felt important, as though Longbottom was musing on the claim, and their plans wouldn't work out if he didn't accept it. Then he gave a short, choppy nod.  
  
"Just as long as you don't expect me to condone Unforgivables or any other Dark spells," he said.  
  
"We'll leave you out of that part of the plans," said Draco shortly. He wasn't going to tell Longbottom about Aster or the Black secrets, if that was his attitude. He glanced at Potter. "Have you made arrangements to cast the Soul Revelation Spell?" Potter should have done it already, but it never seemed to be the right time; they were plotting with Granger, or they were putting up wards, or they were studying the magic Aster had given them, or Draco was going to visit Blaise.  
  
"Yes," said Potter slowly. "But it's strange. I seem to keep forgetting the incantation each time I memorize it." He frowned and turned to Draco. "I was hoping you would cast it on me and tell me what it looks like."  
  
"What is the Soul Revelation Spell?" Longbottom asked calmly. He hadn't reacted to Draco's comment about leaving him out of certain parts of the spells, but he looked back and forth between them now expectantly, as though of course their plans wouldn't go forward until they'd explained.  
  
That assumption of control irritated Draco, but he also found himself responding to it. He said, "It's a spell that reveals the colors and power of a wizard's magic. Rather like the Lightfinder. It was misinterpreted in earlier times as showing the soul, and the name stuck. But it's widely understood now as just a spell that shows magic, not the soul."  
  
"So it _is_ like the Lightfinder," Longbottom muttered.  
  
At least that meant he believed the Lightfinder was not what the Ministry claimed already, and they wouldn't have to convince him. Draco nodded. "Yes," he said, and faced Potter. "I have the incantation in mind, and I only need a moment to practice the wand movements. I can cast it on you."  
  
"Good," said Potter, and stood up, bracing his hands on the table as he faced Draco.  
  
Draco paused, a little startled, when he saw the gleam in Potter's eyes. He was suddenly sure Potter hadn't forgotten the incantation at all. He had simply wanted to show Longbottom that he trusted Draco to point a wand at him and cast the right thing, instead of a harmful spell.  
  
 _Sometimes, Potter has a true Slytherin's cunning,_ Draco thought respectfully, and took another minute to practice the wand movements, as he had said he would. The last thing he wanted to do now was mess it up, in front of an audience.  
  
When he was finally ready, he faced Potter and cast the spell, slowly and without the flourishes he would have used for a spell he knew and was trying to impress someone with. The power seemed to flow through his wand like a great river, sluggish on the surface. Beneath, Draco felt the current that sprang out and arched towards Potter.  
  
The actual spell was invisible, but its effect certainly wasn't. In seconds, Potter began to glow like a fairy light, with the aura, shaped roughly like a silhouette, extending a good distance away from his body.  
  
And that aura was indigo.   
  
Draco took a deep breath and glanced at Longbottom. His eyes were fastened on Potter, and his face was blank for a second. But then he nodded and huffed out a breath.  
  
"Yeah," he said, and turned around to face Draco. "Harry trusts you. That means I can work with you, for now." He jerked his head at the aura shimmering around Potter. "And _that_ looks exactly like the Lightfinder. Which means we can't trust the Ministry when they say that their machine displays someone's soul. And we have to stop them."  
  
In those words, as inexorable as boulders rolling down a mountainside, Draco heard the promise of their first real alliance with a Light wizard, and smiled.  
  



	11. Drawing Near

"This would be easier if you would give us clearer instructions," Potter muttered to Aster, taking a step back and shaking his head as though someone had tried to fling a net around his ears.  
  
"It would be easier if you had ever cast Dark magic before this," said Aster. He had somehow changed his portrait a bit, so that he had a couch in it before the bookshelves instead of a chair. He lounged on the couch, watching Potter with critical eyes as he dragged the leg that Draco had turned to stone behind him. "You have talent, but you're too slow. You hesitate to use offensive spells instead of defensive ones."  
  
"I was talented in Defense Against the Dark Arts, not Dark Arts," Potter muttered to himself, and he frowned down at the leg. Draco had to turn away with a small cough so he wouldn't burst out laughing. Potter looked so confounded when he stared at the result of a relatively simple spell. "How do I get this back to normal?"  
  
"The countercurse should be obvious," said Aster. "You'll have learned hexes that turn a whole body to stone, surely. The spell to reverse that and the spell to reverse a spell on a single limb are related." He sighed loudly and shifted his position on the couch. "Do you mean that ridiculous division still prevails at Hogwarts?"  
  
Potter was engaged in casting fruitless _Finites_ on his leg and didn't answer Aster, so Draco reckoned it was up to him. "What do you mean?"  
  
"The division between Dark Arts and the defenses against it," said Aster. "How can one separate them? Surely you have to know the curse as well as the countercurse that defends against it."  
  
Draco shrugged and leaned against the wall beside the portrait, watching in interest as Potter moved on to stronger spells. At least he hadn't insisted on remaining with Light magic once he realized it wouldn't work. "I wouldn't know. My father was on the Board of Governors, but I don't recall him talking about that decision. They must have made it before his time."  
  
"They were moving in that direction when I was alive," said Aster grimly. "I taught _my_ children Dark Arts at home, of course. That was accepted and respectable for wizards then."  
  
"No wonder all the Blacks were mad," said Potter, without looking away from his stone leg.  
  
Aster stood up from the couch, bristling. Draco watched Potter thoughtfully instead of joining in the outrage. Potter had done this several times now: made a remark that seemed calculated to provoke Aster and then stood there and listened to the tirade with what looked like a pretense of indifference. But Draco was no longer sure it was a pretense. Maybe Potter really _didn't_ care about the outrage so much as the information that Aster would let slip when he was ranting like this.  
  
That meant Aster was telling them, explaining to them, more than he meant to, instead of trickling the information out drop by drop. And it meant Potter was much more manipulative than Draco had thought he was, as well as much more mistrustful of their helpful ancestral portrait.  
  
Draco would have to think about that.  
  
"It is your family, too," Aster began. He always started with a similar statement. "You don't have parents. I thought you would at least _like_ to know more about your closest living wizardly relatives."  
  
"I'd like to know more about them," said Potter, and his wand flicked back and forth, hard, tapping across his leg. As Draco watched, the tone of his flesh began to melt over the stone once more. Potter sighed and turned his head so that he was watching Draco and Aster again. "But most of them aren't alive, either. And they would have hated a person like me."  
  
"Many of my children and grandchildren would not have been ashamed to marry or father a half-blood," said Aster.  
  
Potter smiled, but said nothing. Aster turned to Draco. " _You_ understand the importance of family," he said. "And the importance of knowledge. We have to keep certain histories alive, or our descendants won't understand them. You agree that we should teach both Dark Arts and Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts?"  
  
"I think we should," said Draco, which was only true. "But I don't see what that has to do with the Black family."  
  
"When I was alive," said Aster, and sat down on the couch again, so he could see both of them at once, "I was the patriarch of a family that wanted to _know_ things. We recorded old spells. We kept alive customs that had been current two centuries ago. And we learned Dark Arts and Healing Arts and Light Arts, the ones who had the power for them, the spells that they wouldn't learn at Hogwarts and the ones they would. I can't believe that I have to rely on only _one_ descendant who has any kind of a passion for this."  
  
"I would have more of a passion for the Dark Arts if I hadn't had so many people try to kill me or torture me using them," Potter muttered. His leg was entirely flesh again, and he straightened and flexed it. Draco caught himself watching the way that Potter's robe fell back down his leg when he stood up, and wondered how Potter had figured out the counterspell so quickly. Draco didn't know it himself.  
  
"Dark Arts are a branch of knowledge," said Aster impatiently. "The same spells could be used to either Heal or cause someone pain, depending on how one cast them. That doesn't mean we should ban all Healing magic because someone _somewhere_ might cause their patients pain."  
  
Potter cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing for a moment. It was Draco who murmured, "Is all the knowledge that your descendents recorded in the libraries upstairs?"  
  
"Of course not," said Aster. "For some of them, the knowledge was too much, and they did destroy the books when they turned their backs on us or fled to join the Muggle-lovers. And some is recorded in me." He looked as smug as Draco thought only a Black could. "And there are some hidden libraries in other houses that used to belong to our family and don't anymore. But a lot of it is up there."  
  
"Good," said Draco, and caught Potter's gaze. "Then we should go up and spend some more time looking for it." They still needed effective communication spells that would let them spread the word about the Lightfinder and what a deception it was before the Ministry could shut them down.  
  
Potter nodded, and moved away from the portrait. Aster watched him all the way across the room, and then moved his head to Draco in a decisive nod, the sort of gesture his parents would use when they wanted him to stay nearby instead of leaving.  
  
Potter paused in the doorway and glanced back at him. Draco said, "I'm just staying here to converse with Aster a moment," which was true, no matter how much it looked as if it annoyed Aster.  
  
Potter only shrugged and left the room. Draco studied him a moment to make sure he wasn't limping from his recent transformation of his leg from stone to flesh, decided he wasn't, and faced the portrait. "Yes?"  
  
"You _could_ tell me whether you think Potter is trustworthy," said Aster, sounding as if he had asked this several times and Draco had refused to answer. "Someone who does not value the Dark Arts, who does not want to be a Dark wizard, who makes no distinction between wizards who tried to kill him and the spells they used? What do you think?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "He's only been used to thinking of himself as a Dark wizard for a short time now. I wouldn't judge him for that. And he managed to survive the Killing Curse from a point-blank range. I agree that it wouldn't be a good idea to bring up the notion of using Unforgivables around him any time soon."  
  
"But the rest?"  
  
"The rest," Draco echoed blankly, not sure what Aster meant.  
  
"Can we trust him to stay true to our goal of bringing Dark wizards into prominence and power again, saving them, defending them?" Once again, the couch had vanished from Aster's portrait. Instead, the chair was back, and Aster was walking restlessly around it, pausing to drum his hand on the back. "Will he stay true to you, or betray you if his Light allies want him to do it?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Aster paused and turned his head towards Draco, frowning as if Draco had offered to bring a torch towards his painting and burn it. "What? You're allies with someone you can't trust?"  
  
"I can't trust him completely because we used to be rivals, and he's new to thinking of himself as a Dark wizard, and he has different principles than I do." Draco folded his arms and gave Aster a faint, nasty smile. "Just like I can't trust you completely because your goals aren't mine. I never said anything about bringing Dark wizards into political prominence."  
  
"How else do you think that you're going to have the safe and free world to live in that you talked about?" Aster snapped. "You really think that _Light_ wizards are going to guarantee that for you?"  
  
"I think that they won't do it on their own, but some of them will help," said Draco calmly. It was fine, really, being able to do something that teased and irritated Aster. "And I might not be able to trust them completely, but I can trust them to keep their words. Which means I just need to get some oaths from them."  
  
"Oaths of secrecy, I assume," said Aster, and he was watching Draco the way he sometimes did when Draco argued with Potter too much for them to be able to use the knowledge Aster wanted to teach them. "Not oaths of loyalty."  
  
Draco thought about Longbottom, and then about Granger, formidable in her own way, and shook her head. "I wouldn't dare demand those kinds of oaths of them."  
  
" _Dare_ ," Aster repeated, and stalked out of the portrait frame.  
  
Draco waited a moment for him to come back, then shrugged and made his way up the stairs. He didn't find Potter waiting for him there, or in the narrow passage that made up the back of the bookcase at the top, which was more self-control than Draco would have credited Potter with.   
  
He was in the library, though, sipping from a bottle of some golden liquid that Kreacher had probably brought him. He looked up when Draco came out, let his lips twitch a little, and asked, "Did you have a good plotting session?"  
  
"It's not like that," Draco said, and took his seat across from Potter. Kreacher appeared with a similar golden bottle, and Draco accepted it and swallowed absentmindedly. The next second, he bent double from the wave of heat that flashed up his throat. "Sweet _Merlin,_ Potter. You could have said something."  
  
"I would have, if I had known that you were going to drink it straight off like that." Potter grinned at him. "This is Emberwhisky. Like it?"  
  
"I've never heard of it." Draco stared at the bottle in his hand for a second, and then took another, more cautious sip. He supposed the flame was less than you would get in Firewhisky, hence the name, and more of a sweet glow in the center of his chest instead of one that felt as if it would burn out the inside of his mouth. Still, the color didn't lead you to suspect you were going to be drinking anything _nearly_ that strong. "Where did you find it?"  
  
"Kreacher told me that the Blacks had some stores of it." Potter twitched a shoulder. "I reckoned I could use it, as the owner of the Black estate. Although..."  
  
Draco looked at him. "Yes?"  
  
"Aster doesn't like that I'm the owner of this house, does he?" Potter leaned forwards. "That's what you were talking about down there."  
  
"He doesn't like that you were so recently a Light wizard," Draco replied. He was going to tell the truth around Potter, so that he didn't end up with a situation worse than it was already. The last thing he needed was to make enemies out of his allies, as well as the Ministry. "He _does_ wonder where your true allegiance lies."  
  
Potter's mouth twitched violently for a moment, and then he snorted and applied himself to a long swallow of Emberwhisky. "What does he want?"  
  
"For me to request oaths of loyalty from the Light wizards working with us."  
  
Potter nearly choked on his drink, but Draco got no satisfaction from it. "Rest assured, Potter, I'm not going to do it," he said dryly. "Both Granger and Longbottom would laugh in my face, and--"  
  
"I know you wouldn't do it," Potter said, and shook his head in wonder. "I'm just surprised that he would even think we had to do it. Does he dislike Light wizards in general, or is it that Hermione's Muggleborn and the Longbottoms were enemies of the Blacks, or something?"  
  
"The Blacks intermarried with them just like they did everyone else," Draco said, a little uneasy. "But sometimes I wonder if Aster left his portrait before I met him and he knows more information than we think he does. Although even then, I don't know what he thinks he can gain by antagonizing us."  
  
"I don't think it's antagonism he _means,_ exactly," Potter said, as if feeling the outlines of a new idea. "I think it's manipulation. That he's not very good at."  
  
Draco opened his mouth, then thought through what he had been about to say and shut it again.  
  
"What?" Potter demanded.  
  
"I was about to say that no ancestor of mine would fail to be good at manipulation," Draco muttered. "And then I realized how strange a thing that was to feel insulted by. In this case, if Aster is attempting to manipulate us both to finish some sort of plan that he hasn't informed us of, then it's _preposterous_ for me to wish he was better at it."  
  
Potter laughed aloud, and Draco knew the sensation of being in the charmed circle of that laughter that he thought Potter's friends had always felt. He knew the laughter wasn't _at_ him, and it burned and rang in his ears in a way that suggested Potter was about to make marvelous things happen.   
  
"No, I know what you mean," said Potter, and propped his chin on his fist. "I felt the same denial the first time I heard that my father had been a bully instead of the hero I wanted to picture. And then I had to make myself calm down and realize, no, that wasn't some lie, and I couldn't expect him to be a hero all his life. Why would he have known when he was fifteen that he would face Voldemort when he was an adult? It was silly to expect it of him."  
  
Draco found it hard to take his eyes from Potter. Professor Snape had spoken to him a few times of James Potter, and had also said that Potter knew of his father's bullying ways and would never accept them. Potter sounded from his words just now as if he _had_ accepted them, and it wasn't even something Draco had brought up or mentioned.   
  
It wasn't even _about_ Snape.  
  
Draco felt a stab as he wondered how Professor Snape would feel, to know that Potter had forgotten him so completely and gone on with his life. Draco shivered the feeling away and asked, "Do you think we can trust Aster enough to take the knowledge from him?"  
  
Potter nodded. "Whatever he's up to, I doubt that he would really want to sabotage his plans this early on. And his knowledge of spells doesn't necessarily have to be bad for us, provided that we test all the spells he teaches us and ensure that they _do_ work the way he's described. I'm more annoyed that he's decided to test us like this than anything else. It's going to--"  
  
Draco started as something shrill and blaring screamed in his ear. That was nothing compared to Potter's reaction, though. He was on his feet in seconds, whirling around with his wand in his hand.  
  
"What's that?" Draco whispered.  
  
"Someone broke the wards on my Floo to come through," said Potter grimly. "Which means an identical alarm just rang in the Ministry."  
  
Draco stood up, a hand on his wand, and cast a soft spell that would let him know where Pansy and Astoria were. Neither of _them_ seemed to have moved from the floor below, where they had gone to study a few books taken from a different Black library. Pansy had told Draco excitedly that morning that they were on the track of something big, a spell that might be able to conceal a wizard's affinity from a machine like the Lightfinder. Draco had wondered if they could really _use_ a spell like that. The point was to get the Ministry to stop using the Lightfinder, not to trick it.  
  
But in the meantime, there was a different point. Draco eased up until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Potter. Potter gave him a single look out of the corner of his eye, and then seemed to decide that Draco was harmless compared to whatever had come through the Floo. He didn't even flinch when Draco's wand jostled near his back.  
  
"Kreacher," Potter said, in a voice that reminded Draco of Parseltongue.  
  
Kreacher appeared, and looked between the two of them in a way that made Potter ease up on the tension, although Draco was perfectly willing to keep it going. "What is masters doing?" Kreacher demanded, with a little frown. "There is being an intruder?"  
  
"The alarm rang," Potter said. "Are you saying that it's not more Aurors coming back, or an enemy?"  
  
"Is being Master Harry Potter's Weasley." Kreacher turned to Draco as if he could help the elf understand Potter's absurd behavior. "Is blood traitors no longer being welcome in the Black house?"  
  
"Ron wouldn't come here unless something was really wrong," said Potter, tensing more at that revelation, and then he was out of the room, blurring down the corridor with a speed that made Draco believe he really had been training for the Aurors before this whole debacle with the Ministry took place. Or maybe he had got _really good_ at running in the last year, on this mysterious quest that he'd decided to drag Weasley and Granger along on.  
  
Draco had no admonitions or scolds to offer, not right now. He followed silently.  
  
*  
  
Ron was pacing in the drawing room on the ground floor as though he hated the carpet. He spun around when he saw Harry, and came running over to him. His face was like a sheet of paper, his eyes like black markings on it.  
  
"They have Fleur."  
  
Harry controlled his impulse to run out the door, and held Ron's arms in his hands. "You triggered an alarm when you came through the Floo," he said. "We'll probably have Aurors here in a few minutes. You tell me what you think is most important, and then we're going to get you into hiding."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy at the bottom of the stairs, regarding him and Ron attentively. Harry stared at him. He would have thought Malfoy would seek shelter the instant he realized Ron was in the house. Irritated, Harry motioned with his head at him, but Malfoy only stood there and watched with what looked like fascination. He wouldn't move even when Harry hissed at him, a sound that was pretty close to Parseltongue and had unnerved more than one person.  
  
Ron glanced distractedly over his shoulder and barely reacted to the sight of Malfoy, something Harry knew would have infuriated him at any other time. "Mate, what the _hell_ \--" he said. "When did they start watching your Floo?"  
  
"Since they started to suspect he had a brain of his own," said Malfoy.   
  
Harry rolled his eyes and said, "Did they put Fleur through the Lightfinder? Did she attack Kingsley? What?"  
  
"Neither of those things," Ron said, shaking his head and managing to settle his attention on the matter at hand, which Harry had to admit was impressive of him. "She tried to Apparate to Azkaban and break Bill out."  
  
Harry closed his eyes and gave a weary curse. That was the sort of thing that would _force_ the Ministry to respond. Sort of like the alarms ringing on his Floo. Kingsley would probably be sorry, the way Harry thought he was sorry about what had happened when they ran Harry through the Lightfinder, but he couldn't prevent it from happening, and by now, events were pushing along, sliding along.  
  
"This is what we're going to do," he said, and his voice was deliberate. He felt it calm down Ron, because he was touching Ron at the time, and that was sort of unmistakable. On the other hand, Malfoy's hostility was palpable. He never _had_ liked being ordered around, Harry thought, even by people trying to save his life. "You're both going to hide, and so are the other people here, and I'm going to meet the Aurors or the other people they send in. I'm going to say that I know all about Fleur, and I want to meet with her. Maybe I can persuade them to let her go. If not Bill. They have children. There's stories that circulate about how Veela aren't rational when their mates get locked up. I might be able to make them back off on a move that know is going to be unpopular with some people once it gets out."  
  
"That's bollocks," said Malfoy softly. Harry opened his eyes and saw Malfoy watching him with a hawk's hungry look. "That's not what you're planning on doing, because you know it's not enough to hold back the tide. Some people might not like her imprisonment, but they'll be in the minority. And the Ministry might want to release her, but they wouldn't only on your persuasion, now that you're suspected Dark. What are you _really_ going to do?'  
  
"No _time_ ," Harry snapped, because he could hear the Floo chiming, insistent. The Aurors would probably come in unannounced if they had to, he thought bitterly, but he wasn't ready for that yet, given his new wards. He didn't want those discovered until there was no other choice. "Take Ron and Pansy and Astoria and _hide_." He thrust Ron so hard at Malfoy that Malfoy had to catch him if he didn't want him to go sprawling on the floor. Luckily, Malfoy did the decent thing for once in his life.  
  
"Harry," Ron began.  
  
"Potter," Malfoy began, and his eyes were horribly suspicious.  
  
" _Go_ ," Harry barked, and Malfoy's Slytherin self-preservation instincts finally kicked in. He dragged Ron up the stairs despite his protests.   
  
Harry went to answer the Floo, and his mind was already moving. Malfoy was right. Very little would persuade the Ministry to let Fleur go, and Harry wasn't about to betray that it was Ron who had brought the news, or Ron would end up in a cell beside Bill.  
  
That meant he would have to pretend that he had somehow known about the news on his own, and offer the Ministry a bribe that was worth Fleur's freedom. And Bill's, if he was lucky.  
  
Harry rolled his shoulders and settled them. _Well. It's not the first time that I've been a sacrifice._  
  
He was settled and calm, ready to play the part of the Dark mastermind the Ministry had wanted to arrest for some time, when the first Auror tumbled out of the Floo.   
  



	12. Stand and Deliver

The Aurors who dragged Harry into the Ministry weren't ones he had seen before, either with Splinter or when he visited the Ministry for his Lethe tests. The leader seemed to be a man as tall as Kingsley, with a frown that darted across his face whenever he glanced at Harry. He led Harry up and down corridors, through lifts, and up a set of stairs that Harry hadn't known existed, since everyone in the Ministry seemed to use the lifts or Floo connections. They halted in front of a door made of white wood with a crescent moon carved into it.  
  
Harry squinted. He thought he could make out facial features on the moon, a long, pointed nose and heavy eyebrows. They reminded him of someone, although he couldn't say who.  
  
"You've done it now," the tall man muttered at Harry, and then rapped on the door in a strange sequence. When Harry looked more closely, he could see that faint silver lines divided the door into four panels, and the Auror was knocking on them in a particular order, a different number of knocks for each part.  
  
The door opened before Harry could try to memorize the code, and they stepped into a room filled with smoke and flashing silver mirrors. Harry raised his eyebrows before he could stop himself.   
  
"Really?" he asked, since he thought he might as well. " _Really_ smoke and mirrors?"  
  
The smoke pulled back while the Aurors were still poking him in the side as if they wanted him to be quiet. A tall figure wrapped in silver robes stepped out. Harry tensed for a moment, struck dumb. He couldn't see any face under the cowl, and while the robes didn't  _look_ like a Dementor's...  
  
"A necessary artifice," said the figure, and turned to glide in front of Harry towards the back of the room. "My name is Oratory. Come with me."  
  
The Aurors had released Harry and retreated out the door. Harry looked back just in time to see them opening it. Then he turned forwards into the smoke again, wondering how he was going to follow Oratory if he didn't want to be found.  
  
"This way," said a voice out of the smoke, and a corner of the silvery robe curled up and beckoned, appearing almost in the corner of Harry's eye. Harry swore and hurried towards it through the mirrors, trying to ignore the flashing distraction of his own image in them.  
  
Oratory kept moving after that, always providing enough guidance that Harry never felt completely lost, but never enough that Harry could feel confident he knew where he was going. It was still a surprise to stumble abruptly out of the mist and find himself in what looked like a perfectly normal room with a desk in the middle of it, a chair behind and a chair in front. It might have been an Auror office. Harry turned to glance over his shoulder, but the room full of smoke and mirrors had vanished.  
  
"Yes, that's a useful trick we've perfected," said Oratory, and took a seat behind the desk. There was still nothing inside the cowl that Harry could see, but he had the impression of benevolent, unseen eyes gazing at him nevertheless. "We do keep track of your movements, you know."  
  
"Then you would have caught me sooner," Harry said. He would still have to tailor his lies, he knew, but to this unknown person, which was going to be harder than tailoring them to Kingsley. Still, if they needed secret knowledge, he was willing to spin as many tales as it took. He folded his arms and glared at the space where the eyes  _would_ be. "You would have figured out my plans."  
  
"Oh, we don't generally intervene," said the vague voice. "Now, matters have become severe enough that we have to. Won't you sit down?" It waved one hand at the chair in front of his desk.  
  
Harry took a moment to check the chair for signs of a seat that would tilt up and dump him on the floor, or any violent spells. The voice chuckled in return. "You've become conscious that many of the tests they're performing on you for Lethe are not exactly for your benefit?" it asked, as Harry finally sat down.  
  
Harry nodded firmly, although he hadn't known that for certain. On the other hand, he had long since come to the conclusion that a lot of the tests were looking for things like the general power of his magic instead of things that would affect his safety. "It's annoying as hell, I don't mind telling you."  
  
"Yes, don't mind," said Oratory, and clasped his hands and leaned forwards over his desk. Harry was almost sure the voice was male, although he hadn't counted on how disconcerting it would be not to see an expression. "Now. We are not the Unspeakables, but a separate division, one committed to studying larger patterns in the wizarding world than can be found by looking at artifacts and ancient magic."  
  
Harry blinked. "What are you, then?"  
  
"The Ministry calls us the Unseen," said the figure. "That name will do as well as any. We are concerned because there was a war that could have destroyed our world, and now there is this paranoia that could do the same thing. We let the pattern of the war play out. With a prophecy and a Dark Lord none of us could challenge directly and Horcruxes on the field, we had no choice. But this paranoia is not necessary. It can still be changed and directed, and that is what we want to do."  
  
Harry stared at Oratory in silent fury. On the one hand, it sounded as if these Unseen could be allies of his, if they were talking about helping.  
  
On the other hand, if they could have made the war easier for him and had chosen not to, because of nonsense concerning "destiny" and "chosenness" and "necessity," then Harry was boiling.  
  
"How many people could you have saved?" he finally demanded. "Maybe you couldn't do anything about the fight I had to have with Voldemort, but you could have done something about saving the people in the  _Ministry_! Where you  _work!_ "  
  
"Do you know why the Ministry banned weather magic?" Oratory asked.  
  
Harry stared. "What does  _that_ have to do with anything?"  
  
"You don't, then." Unconcerned with his closeness, now that he was almost leaning over the desk and threatening to poke the idiot in the chest, Oratory went on calmly. "The Ministry banned it because its patterns were too complex for individual wizards to see. They couldn't understand that shifting clouds even a little so that their daughter could have sunshine for her wedding could cause a devastating flood in the next county, or that trying to make it stop raining early could contribute to the lengthening of a drought. We came into being at the same time, in the hope that a group of wizards could study the long-term patterns and come to understand them, and perhaps use weather magic wisely again."  
  
"But that's not what you're doing," Harry said, and gave back as hostile a stare as he could muster. Fine, he didn't know how to react to the Unseen, but whether he could try his pretense on them or had to show his real emotions, his anger would be the same.  
  
"No," Oratory acknowledged cheerfully. "We realized there were other long-term patterns to be studied, including the waves of the future. A large number of us use Divination the way it was meant to be used, as a pattern of warnings, not of absolute knowledge. And we have seen that you stand at the fulcrum of this paranoia and the change it could make in the wizarding world, much as you stood at the fulcrum of the war."   
  
"Lucky, lucky me," Harry muttered.  
  
"Oh, no. You aren't particularly favored by the patterns of luck, you know."  
  
Harry gave up on trying to make it clear what he meant, because it seemed as though the Unseen would only twist his words. "Then what do you want? Are you going to  _help_ me prove that the Lightfinder is just a means of showing someone's affinity for Dark and Light? Or are you going to hang around in the background and make me more paranoid?"  
  
For some reason, those words seemed to affect Oratory when nothing else had. The figure sat up, and Harry had the feeling those invisible eyes had grown more piercing. Then the Unseen said, "That is unkind. After all, you have already been with one of our associates, and he has helped you."  
  
"Who?" Harry asked, his mind going, absurdly, to Splinter.  
  
"Aster Black."  
  
"How can a  _portrait_ be a member of your organization?"  
  
"Oh, it all depends on where the portrait frame is placed, and whether the knowledge of the figure in it is extensive enough to permit us to take an interest." Oratory seemed calm again. He waved one hand. "So. You have benefited from his knowledge of spells. Would you not like to do the same thing with us?"  
  
Harry had to stop and think about it. He was still angry that this organization that seemed to be so powerful hadn't interfered in the war, or before this to stop stupid things like the imprisonment of Bill, but Malfoy would say he should be clear-headed when he made a decision, not reject things out of fury. Harry didn't want to look stupid in front of Malfoy.  
  
"What can you offer?" he finally asked. "And is it going to be advice, or spells, or something else?"  
  
The Unseen nodded slowly. "Good. Now you are  _thinking_ instead of merely reacting." Harry bit his lips and held still. "Even better." Oratory leaned back. "Now, why did you come here? It was convenient for us, because we could intercept you, but what was running through your head when you came to the Ministry?"  
  
"They would know that someone had come through my Floo," said Harry. "Or that I had used it to go somewhere. I was going to tell them that I knew about them capturing my friend Fleur, who was only trying to free her mate from prison."  
  
" _Only_."  
  
Harry ignored that, and kept speaking. "I was going to tell them that they could condemn me, and I would confess to whatever they wanted, in exchange for them freeing Bill and Fleur."  
  
"They've been telling the public that you're a Dark wizard all along. What could you offer them that would be different from what they already have?"  
  
Harry breathed to calm his anger, and replied, "I've been resisting it, somewhat. They've already sent Aurors to my house to look around for whatever subversive book I've been reading. The tests that they said are for my safety before they use Lethe on me have got harder. I would tell them I'd cease that resistance and give interviews about my Darkness of my own free will. I haven't done that so far, because they wouldn't let me in front of a reporter."  
  
"Because they didn't know what you might say, and you are a terrible liar. Even the lies that you've tried to tell me, you can only do by omitting something." Oratory tapped his fingers in a pattern that made his desk glow. Harry only caught a glimpse of spirals and shapes that looked like crescent moons before the Unseen snatched his attention back. "That was a good plan, so far as it went. But then the wizarding world falls into chaos, and that is annoying."   
  
 _They really must be detached from the world, if they can think of chaos as merely annoying,_ Harry thought.  _Maybe every last one of them is a portrait._  
  
"So this is what you will do instead," said Oratory.  
  
"Only if you can guarantee that my friends and allies are going to be safe," said Harry, and didn't care that those invisible eyes on his face now felt hot enough to make his scar smoke. "I won't do anything that hurts them."  
  
Oratory had a staring contest with him. This time, Harry thought, not seeing the face was actually an advantage. It was still unnerving, but not in the specific way that seeing a glare or a look of poisonous hatred for his Dark affinity would be.  
  
"The least annoying pattern needs most of your friends and allies," the Unseen finally conceded. "Fine. You want your Weasley friends freed?"  
  
"That's the most immediate goal," said Harry. "That's the one I was prepared to sacrifice myself for."  
  
"Only a small goal, considering what your compliance is worth to the Ministry," said Oratory. "They would have accepted your bargain, because the Savior condemning himself out of his own mouth is one of the major things they want."  
  
"Are you going to advise me to drive a harder bargain, then?" Harry wondered why the Unseen had brought him here if that was the case. Diverting the Aurors, and revealing to at least a few of them where Harry had been taken, didn't seem worth it for a plan that small.  
  
"No," said Oratory. "I advise you to present the face of someone struggling with his own Dark affinity. Tell them that you hear voices in your head pulling you towards the Dark and voices that pull you towards the Light. You want to be Light again. That is Lethe's purpose, you know, to change someone's magic."  
  
Harry swallowed. He had suspected that, had never really thought once he learned what the Lightfinder did that Lethe would scrub his soul clean, but it was another thing to hear it stated so baldly.  
  
"But how can I do that, when I can't lie well? And why would it convince them anyway? It sounds like a childish excuse."  
  
"Because," Oratory said, "unlike most other people who might tell this ploy, you  _did_ have someone's soul wrapped around yours. Yes, you will need to tell them about the Horcrux," he added, when Harry opened his mouth to protest. "You can tell them that the voice of the Dark is the voice of Voldemort, and the voice of the Light comes from your own, uncorrupted soul. Portray yourself as struggling with this last remnant of the one who called himself the Dark Lord. They will buy it."  
  
They might at that, Harry conceded slowly. They were still more afraid of Voldemort than anything else. The Lightfinder had been created in the first place to try to find wizards like Voldemort before they grew too strong. Fear was guiding the Ministry's decisions right now. An even more profound fear would probably seem all the more convincing for that.  
  
"As for how you can lie to them," said Oratory, and brought something out. One moment his hand didn't hold it, and the next it was there. Harry tried to conceal his jump, though from the way that Oratory didn't bother hiding a smile in his voice, he wasn't entirely successful. "Here. This amulet will fool those who hear you into thinking you speak the truth. Whatever they want most  _not_ to hear is what they will hear. And with the Ministry's current mood..."  
  
Harry lifted the amulet up slowly. It looked like a carving of golden wood, set with a single eye that had long rays like the sun's extending out from it to the edge of the amulet. The chain itself was also wood, made of fine links that didn't seem to have any join. "What about someone with Legilimency? And how will I hide the amulet?"  
  
"Good," said Oratory. When Harry shot him a look, he had the impression of a smile returned from under the hood. "You are more intelligent than Aster implied you were. The amulet uses the fear magic associated with it to deflect Legilimency as well, and makes the mind-reader's fear too intense to go further. Put on the amulet for the answer to your other question."  
  
Harry spent another moment studying Oratory, wondering why in the world he wanted to trust the bugger. But on the other hand, it wasn’t as though he had come here with a safer plan. His would have ended his freedom. This promised a way around that, a way that would let him still help Bill and Fleur, and maybe Malfoy and the others, too.  
  
Harry slung the amulet around his neck. The wooden links immediately glowed, a soft, silvery light that Harry had to admire. Then they pivoted around each other, turning as though to face him. Harry stared down at them and waited for them to stop turning.  
  
It didn’t really happen. Instead, the links began to fade. Harry breathed in and out, experimentally. The links were still there; he could feel them pressing against his neck. But they didn’t rattle when he moved, and there was no sign either of them or the slight bulge he knew the amulet must be making beneath his shirt to the searching eye.  
  
“That’s  _brilliant_ ,” Harry breathed.  
  
“We rather thought so.” Oratory waited with his hands clasped until Harry stopped toying with the amulet and looked up again. “We require a price for this assistance, of course.”  
  
Harry nodded. For once, he didn’t feel the bitterness that he had started experiencing when he realized how the Ministry was using him, and even towards Dumbledore at the very end. Oratory and the Unseen wanted something; they were providing something. With help, this could be a good alliance, the way Harry thought he was forging with Malfoy.  
  
 _Well…perhaps not exactly like the one with Malfoy._ Harry had to admit that so far, Oratory, and even the other Unseen whose purpose he had explained, didn’t interest him the way Malfoy did.  
  
“We wish you to resist Lethe.”  
  
Harry blinked. “But won’t that tip them off? I’ve cooperated with the tests so far, and if I’m going to lie to them about being influenced by a piece of Voldemort’s soul still, then I’ll have to do that some more. I have to pretend that I want to be Light again.”  
  
Oratory made an impatient motion with his hand. “Not the tests. We wish you to resist Lethe itself, when they try to put you into the machine.” He seemed to see the next question dawning on Harry’s face, because he added gravely, “Not the Ministry Aurors. Let them push you into the machine, if you must. But resist the machine when it tries to change you.  _Do not let it_.”  
  
Harry paused. This seemed too good to be true, at last. He had no opinion on a lot of what Oratory had told him; it wasn’t like he had ever known about weather magic being banned, or what “real” Divination consisted of. But this…  
  
“You mean that you want me to do something I would do anyway?” he asked.  
  
Oratory touched his hood for a moment, as though he was considering pushing it back and letting Harry look at his face, but in the end, he dropped his hand and left the hood in place. He did lower his voice in emphasis. “I think that you would have sacrificed your magic and your affinity if you thought your friends required it of you. What did you come here to do?”  
  
“Not that,” Harry declared, shaking his head, but then sighed. “All right, something not much less than that.”  
  
Oratory nodded. “Then go and use the amulet.” He stood up abruptly, and the smoke was suddenly there, snaking through the room and around the desk as if it had never left. “I promise you it will work exactly as I explained. Don’t worry about the Aurors who escorted you; they are some of ours, and know better than to chat.” He stepped away from the desk. “When we need you again, we will contact you.”  
  
“Even though I haven’t agreed to resist Lethe yet?”  
  
Oratory paused and looked back at him. “You gave your agreement when the smoke appeared. I would have stayed here and conversed with you longer if you hadn’t. The mirrors know, and the smoke knows.”  
  
Then he vanished, trailing into the flash of mist and light, and Harry found himself standing in what looked like a normal corridor of the Auror division. He turned around slowly, although he didn’t expect to see Oratory behind him, or the mirror that he thought he had come through.   
  
In front of him was Splinter, who gave him a harassed look, as though he’d been waiting hours for Harry.  
  
“Come on, then,” he said, and jerked his head. “If you tried to open your Floo to go somewhere, then we need to talk to you about restrictions.”  
  
Harry relaxed. As he had thought, the Ministry had only set up alarms to warn them if the Floo was opened, not to tell them whether someone was coming or going. They hadn’t been able to distinguish Ron’s entrance from his own attempt at an exit.  
  
“And about Fleur and Bill Weasley,” he murmured.  
  
Splinter paused and rolled one eye back at him. “Then you need to talk Minister Shacklebolt about that. I only handle Lethe.”  
  
Harry refrained from raising a hand to touch his amulet, but only barely. “I’d like to talk to him. And you. About the voices I’ve heard that are tempting me to the Dark and changing my behavior lately.” He stepped closer and whispered, “Trying to convince me to abandon everything I hold dear. I think it’s Voldemort.”  
  
The look of terror on Splinter’s face was heart-warming. Harry bit his lip so as not to laugh, and thought Splinter would give himself whiplash from nodding.  
  
“Come on, then!” Splinter scurried off towards a corridor Harry didn’t recognize. “The Minister will have to be called right away. We’ll need to—”  
  
Harry tuned out the rest of it. The amulet had worked as promised. So far, the Unseen were his allies.  
  
 _But only so far._


	13. Battles Averted

“So. You’re  _here_.”  
  
Draco tried to keep from snapping as he concentrated on the book in front of him. It was one that Astoria had brought him early that morning, commenting that it seemed like it might help, but the handwriting was so cramped it was difficult for her to read. Draco had immediately seized it. A handwritten journal—probably—could aid them a lot more than a book other people would also have on the shelves of their libraries.   
  
“Malfoy? Are you paying attention to me?”  
  
 _More than I’d like,_ Draco thought, but he shut the book and turned around. “I am,” he said, and kept his face empty. “What do you want?”  
  
“To know why you’re here.” Weasley stood with his arms folded near the doorway. He hadn’t even looked around at all the books on the shelves, which Draco would have thought was the  _point_ of a library you didn’t visit often. He looked straight into Draco’s face as if that would tell him what treachery Draco was plotting next. Draco found his temper rising, and had to place one hand on the book to remind himself of what was important. “Why would you join Harry’s effort to—to—”  
  
“You don’t know, do you?” Draco had to smile. “Granger is working with us, and you didn’t know.”  
  
Weasley glared at him. “I did know. It’s the reason that I wasn’t writing to Harry very often and staying away from him. Hermione wanted to save me to be a spy on the inside. But after the Ministry arrested Bill and then Fleur, they probably wouldn’t trust me, either.” He turned to the side as if he was going to finally examine a shelf, but Draco was keeping one eye on the wand he clutched. “I just thought you were living somewhere else.”  
  
Draco tried to remember if he had ever told Granger outright that he and the others were staying here. Maybe not. But Weasley was still upset over nothing. “Potter has plenty of room in the house. It makes for a convenient meeting place.”  
  
“And your ancestors lived here, so that’s something, right?” Weasley sounded as if he was jeering, now.  
  
Draco froze for a second, wondering how Weasley knew about Aster. But then Weasley turned around and jabbed a finger at him, and crowed, “I  _knew_ it!”, and Draco suspected this was about something else.  
  
“You knew  _what_?” he asked coldly, almost wishing he had simply concentrated on the book and let Weasley’s words wash over him. He didn’t need this, not on top of the way that Potter had simply leaped into the Aurors’ arms and let them carry him away. Plan or not, Draco doubted Potter had his own good in mind half the time.  
  
“I knew you wanted to take the Black house away from Harry!” Weasley moved slowly into the middle of the room, and Draco recognized a battle stance. Well, he thought Weasley had started Auror training. “You wanted to inherit it when Sirius died, and probably that crazy aunt of yours—”  
  
“Don’t talk about her,” Draco said automatically. It wasn’t like he mourned Bellatrix, but her name brought up a whole surge of emotions that he wasn’t ready to deal with. She was the one who had taught him Occlumency and torn into his mind, and she was also the one who had tortured Fenrir Greyback once for having the temerity to touch Draco. She was too crazy for Draco to know  _what_ he felt.  
  
“I won’t,” said Weasley. “You probably hoped she would inherit the Black fortune and leave it to you, and she didn’t. That hurts, huh?”  
  
Draco wondered what Weasley would say if he told him that inheriting the house, with its impenetrable wards, would have been far more convenient than inheriting a fortune, but the wondering was pointless, since it wasn’t like Draco would tell him. Draco shut the book and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m off to find a quieter place to read.”  
  
“If you’re planning to betray Harry, then I need to warn him,” Weasley said, and stepped in front of Draco when he tried to leave the library.  
  
Draco boiled over before he could stop himself. “You  _idiot,_ you don’t even know if Potter’s coming back from the Ministry! And without his help, I don’t have anywhere to go, and there’s no—there’s  _no_  rebellion, there’s no chance for me to do anything but flee Britain or let them put me through the Lightfinder, and then there’s no  _anything_. Shut up! You don’t  _matter_ next to that!”  
  
Weasley stared at him in what seemed such surprise that Draco was viciously glad he’d said the words, although Potter might be angry at him later. Then again, that whole thing hinged on Potter’s survival.  
  
“You really don’t want the house?” Weasley asked, and stepped absently in front of Draco again when Draco tried to make his way around him.  
  
“ _No_ ,” said Draco, and glared hard enough that he thought Weasley either had to go for his wand or sue for peace, which he did by lifting his hands.  
  
“Well. All right, then.” Weasley scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “But why did you come to Harry at all?”  
  
Draco sighed. He wanted to be alone and read the book, or at least with Pansy and read the book. But he thought that Weasley might leave him alone if he answered the question honestly. “Because I knew he was already under suspicion from the Ministry, and I wouldn’t draw more if I went to him. But he’s also powerful enough to fight this— _if_  he gets his head out of his arse and decides to stop overreacting to every little thing.”  
  
Weasley flushed. “My sister-in-law being imprisoned isn’t a little thing.”  
  
“Well, it is next to the whole of Britain and the loads of people who might be imprisoned on even less justification,” said Draco, unimpressed. “You might not want to hear it, but that’s the way it is.”  
  
“Harry can’t be the one to stop that, though.” Weasley shook his head. “It was one thing when he was facing Voldemort. That had a prophecy behind it, and Harry was the only one who could destroy him. But there’s no prophecy this time, and Harry’s just one person. He deserves a holiday from saving the world, too.”  
  
“Excuse me for not thinking that,” said Draco. It at least confirmed that Weasley wasn’t going to turn against Potter any time soon, but turning against Potter wasn’t the same as supporting Draco—at least not if Weasley decided it wasn’t. “He’s the one who has the political power from the last world-saving adventure he was on. And the Ministry isn’t going to leave him alone, anyway.”  
  
“So he was a convenience.” Weasley’s eyes were blazing again.  
  
“He was someone who would listen to me,” said Draco, as bluntly as he could. Maybe Weasley would back off if he said that. “He’s someone who could help me, and that’s the way it was. He agreed, too.”  
  
He finally brushed past Weasley, and went up to the room that Potter had given him. He lay back on the bed, arranged his pillows so he could prop his head up at a comfortable angle and read the book at the same time, and tried to go back to reading.  
  
But it was no good. His mind was blazing the way it had when he was younger and had a violent illness, various images of what might happen to—or without—Potter coiling through his sight like fever dreams.  
  
Everything really was at an end if this was the end of Potter.  
  
 _Come back safe, Potter._  
  
*  
  
“It wasn’t you, Harry,” said Kingsley, and caught his hand. “I knew it couldn’t be. I  _knew_ it had something to do with Voldemort.”  
  
Harry gave him a small smile and looked down at the part of his chest where the amulet should have hung. It wasn’t there; of course it wasn’t, given that the Unseen spell still held and it was invisible. But it did make him want to touch it and thank the Unseen for their help. Lying to Kingsley would have been a lot harder without it.  
  
Of course, that only made him wonder exactly what price the Unseen were going to demand for their aid, sooner or later.   
  
Kingsley interrupted again before Harry could pursue the thought to its logical conclusion. “And that means we can continue the tests but change them,” he said, and sighed out, sitting down in the leather chair behind his desk and looking at Harry with pleasure and satisfaction that made Harry want to sigh himself. Kingsley didn’t really want to believe Harry was evil, that much was clear; he had done it only because the evidence seemed overwhelming.  
  
 _But he never thought that the Lightfinder showing a dark color wasn’t the same thing as finding a taint in the soul._  
  
However, if Harry was going to use that perception to fool Kingsley and Splinter and other people, now wasn’t the time to complain about it. “What are you going to change the tests to?” he asked quietly, and took the chair on the other side of Kingsley’s desk when Kingsley gestured to him.  
  
Splinter, who had hovered nearby and listened with wide eyes while Harry told the whole story of the Horcrux and the shred of Voldemort’s soul still beckoning to him, interrupted at that point. “We need to make sure they don’t damage  _your_ magic. What we need to damage is the piece of soul that’s hiding in you.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Kingsley, nodding. “Before, we knew that being free of the Dark affinity was worth any price, but there was a chance that Lethe would have damaged your magic.”  
  
Harry swallowed back the horror that gripped him. No matter what he said, he was certain, they wouldn’t understand it. For one thing, they had both grown up in the wizarding world. They had never lived a time of their lives without magic, and didn’t understand what it would mean to Harry to go back to that kind of existence.   
  
For another, Harry needed to encourage this kind of idea so they could continue with the plan. It was just hard to remember that, sometimes, when he knew he had people hiding at home and in prison who could be benefited if Kingsley would only  _see sense._  
  
“And—and you’ll let Bill and Fleur go?” he asked timidly, looking from Kingsley’s face to Splinter’s.  
  
Splinter didn’t say anything, but looked at the Minister. Kingsley sighed and touched his face. “You have to understand, Harry. Attacking Azkaban is no small thing, isn’t something we can let go, in case other people decide that the rules don’t apply to them, either.”  
  
Harry blinked rapidly and sat up. “But don’t you  _know_ that Fleur is a Veela and was attacking Azkaban because Bill is her mate and she needs him?” In truth, he wasn’t sure how full-Veela Fleur actually was, but it sure made a good excuse, and it probably had its roots in the truth. “I thought there were exceptions in the laws for Veela who needed their mates back and did something that would usually be considered criminal. After all, they  _have_ to have their mates back to survive. It’s not like they can help it.”  
  
Kingsley blinked. “I didn’t think she was as much Veela as all that. I did work with her and Bill in the Order for a while. I think I would have known—”  
  
“Well, her attacking Azkaban shows it, doesn’t it?” Harry demanded. “Do you think she would have done something so mental when you knew her?”  
  
Kingsley hesitated for long moments. Again, Splinter didn’t say anything. Harry thought he didn’t care that much about things like people in Azkaban, except for how they affected Harry.  _His_ focus was Harry and Harry’s magic.  
  
 _Maybe._ Harry wanted to use Aster’s spell to find out, but now wasn’t the time or the place, when he was on the verge of convincing Kingsley.  
  
“That doesn’t account for Weasley’s initial imprisonment, of course,” Kingsley said at last. “Or the color he tested in the Lightfinder.”  
  
 _He’s in prison because your lot put him there._ But Harry knew better than to say something like that. He thought he would have even if it wasn’t for the warning and help of the Unseen, and the ability to lie. He spent a moment fidgeting with his eyes on his hands, and then stood up and said in some agitation, “Well, if I was tainted by being a Horcrux, what do you think  _he_ was?”  
  
Kingsley looked at him with his mouth open for a second, as though he was going to ask what Harry meant, but then he closed it again and looked wise. “The scars on his face.”  
  
“Exactly,” Harry sighed, and sat down again. “When a werewolf like Fenrir Greyback attacks you and scars your face…” He shrugged. “I’d like to see how pure even someone who tested red would be, if that happened to them.”  
  
Kingsley looked as though someone had slapped him and he thought he deserved it. “I can’t believe I was so blind,” he whispered. “I never even considered that explanation. Or the one that makes sense of your color, either.” He looked at Harry intently.  
  
“How could anyone know what I was?” Harry shook his head. “Dumbledore specifically said that I couldn’t tell anyone except Ron and Hermione. And it was a jolly good job Voldemort didn’t know, or he wouldn’t have cast that Killing Curse at me.”  
  
“The Killing Curse should have destroyed the Horcrux,” Splinter announced at that moment. “Shouldn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t really know,” said Harry, and let his face fall. “I know that’s what Dumbledore  _hoped_ would happen. But even though I don’t feel like I have a connection to some separate being anymore, I can still hear it. Whispering.”  
  
He shivered violently with disgust, not even having to feign it. He didn’t  _want_ to be reminded of the taint on his soul, and what he had been for most of his life without knowing it. If there had been a way to burn out the feeling of being a Horcrux without touching anything else, then he would have taken it in a heartbeat.  
  
“Yes, we can’t take any chances,” said Splinter, and he looked pleased with himself again. “Perhaps we should concentrate our efforts first on those touched or tainted by the Dark, and then we can help those unfortunate souls.”  
  
“And will you release Bill and Fleur?” Harry made appealing eyes at Kingsley again. “They really won’t get better if they’re in prison, and Fleur is shut away from her mate, and Bill is left alone with those scars festering on his face. And maybe Greyback’s voice whispering to him.”  
  
Kingsley looked at Splinter, but he was writing notes down, and seemed as uninterested in the fate of anyone who wasn’t Harry as ever. Kingsley faced Harry, looking thoughtful. “If you’re willing to sponsor their continued good behavior, Harry…”  
  
“Yes.” Harry didn’t even have to think about it. “Of course I will. I can advise them to stay in Shell Cottage for right now and not venture out in public the way I do, for example. That would probably help.”  
  
“It would soothe any public outrage. When we explain what happened, of course, and make the public see they were only innocent victims, then the outrage should ease.”  
  
Harry had his private doubts about that, with the fear the Ministry had stirred up that there were Dark wizards walking around, hidden, everywhere someone looked, but if he had tried to argue with Kingsley and Splinter about that, he would have failed. He only bowed his head and looked as repentant as possible. “I hope it will, sir.”  
  
“Good,” said Kingsley, and there were lines of tension about his face that had been erased completely. “Then you’ll go with Splinter and do the last tests that we need before we’ll be able to complete Lethe?” He smiled winsomely at Harry. “I’m not above begging, if I have to, but I don’t think I will. You understand the necessity for this, and for making sure that we get rid of that piece of soul in your head.”  
  
Harry resigned himself to it. It wasn’t any different from what he would have spent most of the day doing, anyway, if he hadn’t run into the Unseen and had simply marched into Splinter’s hands again. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Good.” Kingsley stood up and came around the desk. Harry thought he would just walk out the door, but instead, he gripped Harry’s shoulder in a crushing way and bent down to hug him. “You don’t know how happy and relieved you’ve made me,” he whispered. “Yes, it’s horrifying to know that You-Know-Who has been affecting you this long, but at least you’re going to come back.” His hands tightened, and he stood there for a second until Splinter cleared his throat. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking at anyone again.   
  
Harry stood up, blinking, and turned to Splinter, who gave him a somber glance. “We need to do some recalculations on Lethe and make sure that we have it right,” he muttered, as if that was Harry’s fault. “You do realize how inconvenient this is for us? Why didn’t you tell us about this Horcrux thing from the beginning?”  
  
Exhausted, more than he’d thought he would be from the simple effort of lying, Harry told the truth. “Because I didn’t want people staring at me and thinking I’m mental.”  
  
Splinter’s face softened a little. “Better to be mental than Dark,” he said, and then gestured commandingly at the door. Harry followed him out it, one hand on his wand. If he could cast the spell that would tell him what Splinter was really thinking about him, the spell Aster had shown him and Malfoy…  
  
But Aurors joined them beyond the doors, although they didn’t surround Harry as closely as he thought they would have a day ago, and Harry dropped his hand away from his wand with a sigh. Perhaps he would just have to wait and hope he could find out the truth later.  
  
*  
  
Draco spun around when he heard the door shut below him. Weasley, who’d taken to lurking across the library and toying with a book as if he wanted to convince Draco he could understand Dark magical theory after Draco came back to the library, stood up at once.  
  
Draco swallowed, but it made his throat feel painful, and he shook his head in irritation. He walked over to the edge of the staircase and waited for some sign that this was safe, instead of Aurors invading the house.  
  
He heard Kreacher’s obsequious questions, and relaxed. He opened his mouth to call to Potter, but Weasley rushed up beside him and interrupted him. “Harry! Did you get Bill and Fleur out, mate?”  
  
Potter paused in taking off his cloak below them and looked up with a faint smile. Draco rubbed one shoulder where the tension had knotted painfully. He really hadn’t thought he would see that smile again.  
  
And he would have missed it. He could admit that to himself, if he wasn’t going to admit it to anyone else.  
  
“Yes,” Potter said. “I convinced them that Fleur only attacked Azkaban because she was a Veela who needed a mate, and that Bill wasn’t Dark, he was just influenced by the werewolf scars on his face.” He hesitated, looked once at Draco in a minutely probing way that Draco resented, and then added, “And I told them I wasn’t Dark, I was just influenced by the Horcrux that lingered in my soul. I told them I could still hear Voldemort’s voice whispering to me and tempting me to evil.”  
  
“That,” said Draco, and surprised himself with the supreme coldness of his voice, “was perhaps the worst thing you could have done. Now they’ll distrust all the Dark wizards even more. Now they’ll continue to think of Dark wizards as evil.”  
  
“They already think that,” Weasley began, with a scowl at Draco that seemed to erase the hours they had spent in relative, tense peace.  
  
“It was a tactic that I didn’t really want to use, but it does give us one useful thing,” said Potter, shaking his head. “A spy in the inside ranks. Kingsley’s going to trust me now and be calmer around me. I’m not sure about Splinter, but at least Kingsley won’t hide information from me and think of me as an enemy. And that could be useful.”  
  
Draco stood rigidly still for a moment, and then inclined his head. At least it  _seemed_ as if Potter wasn’t denying his own affinity and stretching things out in an unacceptable way. Draco could accept that, as long as it didn’t come to denial.   
  
Weasley was probably also right that no one in the Ministry would accept Potter’s explanation of Dark not being evil right now, and would only have regarded him as more untrustworthy if he tried to push it. But Draco was free to dislike the measure even while he acknowledged the necessity.  
  
As Draco watched, Potter’s hand rose as if to toy with something around his neck. He flinched a second lat and lowered his hand back to his side. That made Draco wonder what in the world hung there. He couldn’t see anything, but Potter hadn’t made the gesture at his neck before he left.  
  
Weasley was chattering to Potter about affairs concerning the rest of his family that Draco had no interest in. He held Potter’s eyes for one moment before he withdrew to the library.  
  
He was sure something had happened. But although he listened to the rising and falling tones of their voices, or rather Weasley’s voice with Potter’s calm replies, he heard nothing that sounded like an explanation.  
  
That meant Potter was hiding it from his friend. That could be fine, as long as he didn’t think that he could hide it from Draco.  
  
In the end, the respite proved a good thing, because Draco managed to stop the inexplicable shaking of his hands that had plagued him since the moment of his seeing Potter. He had felt that way a few times when the Carrows had taken one of his friends into their offices in Hogwarts, and Draco had thought it would be the last time he’d ever see them.  
  
He’d felt that way when the Aurors came through Astoria’s door.  
  
It suggested certain things about Potter’s importance to him that Draco did not like. Of course, it was mixed up with Potter’s importance to the resistance movement they were launching, but he still didn’t like it.  
  
He was still thinking about it when he heard a movement near the door and looked up. Potter was there, with Pansy right behind him. Pansy came over to take the chair near Draco, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“You have something around your neck that irritates my senses, Potter,” she said. “What is it?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, holding Potter’s gaze, “tell me.”  
  
“ _Us_ ,” Pansy corrected, but Potter responded more to Draco’s entreaty than to hers, Draco thought, as he nodded and moved towards the chair in front of Draco.   
  
“Yes,” he said. “You deserve to know.”  
  
Draco slowly nodded.  _As long as he thinks that._


	14. Deals Made and Bargains Struck

“All you have to do is go out there and tell them the truth,” Splinter muttered, and smoothed some of the wrinkles out of Harry’s robe. Harry had to hold still and let him do that, but he hated the sensation; it was as if Splinter considered Harry his doll that he could pose and adjust. “That you’re hearing You-Know-Who’s voice, and you were the innocent victim in this. They’ll understand.” He paused and looked up at Harry as he straightened again from his crouching position. “They want to reclaim you, you know.”  
  
“Reclaim me?” Harry hated to stare blankly and look as stupid as he knew he did, but he didn’t know what Splinter meant.  
  
“They wanted you to be innocent all along.” Splinter made an impatient gesture, as if to say he wouldn’t have been that stupid. “They wanted you to be—I’m not sure I can describe it. The hero. Not Dark.”  
  
 _Of course they did,_ Harry thought, and had to fight to keep his hand from rising to touch his hidden necklace. Toying with it had become a habit when he was in Grimmauld Place and around the Slytherins who would understand. But touching it in public could render the whole secret obvious in a second.  
  
“Yes,” was all Harry said aloud, and ducked his head and lowered his eyelashes. “I so hated having to disappoint them. This way, I can do things.” He turned and looked anxiously at Splinter. The anxiety was entirely fake, but Splinter had shown no sign of seeing that so far. “What name do you think I should use when I’m talking about it? You-Know-Who or Voldemort?”  
  
Splinter visibly shuddered at the name, and then twitched his lips into a sickly smile. “You should probably call him by the name they’ll expect to hear. Not the frightening one.”  
  
He turned around and headed back towards the front of the little shaded alcove the Ministry had built near the Lightfinder some weeks ago. Harry thought it had a lot to do with not wanting the crowds to see the fear on the faces of some they put through the Lightfinder. But it made a useful private place for them to hide Harry now, so no one would be demanding for him to come out even earlier.  
  
It was also a good opportunity for Harry for other reasons. He pulled out his wand and aimed it at Splinter under the fall of his robes, muttering the spell Aster had taught them that would allow him to hear Splinter’s thoughts concerning him.  
  
Splinter was speaking as the voice of his thoughts began to murmur over his words, but Harry didn’t think it mattered so much if he wasn’t able to hear the instructions right now. Splinter had told him what to do already. He liked to repeat himself because he wanted to be important, and he wanted to make sure of things. Harry knew how uncertain he was about his position in the Ministry, despite the central role he’d played in designing both the Lightfinder and Lethe.  
  
Now, the voice of his thoughts was the far more important one to Harry.  
  
“Poor bastard. I never thought  _he_  would be the one who had to go through it first. But someone has to, and someone who’s powerful will probably suffer less. Where did I put that quill? Oh, it’s right there.” Splinter patted absently at the side of his robes. “Need to record the words of his speech and make sure the one published in the  _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow is an exact match. And then I need to ask him again about the Horcruxes. That’s important.”  
  
Splinter turned around. Harry ended the spell with a little motion of his wand and a mouthed  _Finite Incantatem,_ and gave Splinter an utterly bland look that contrasted with the brilliance of the smile Splinter offered.  
  
“You’re going to make a good impression on them,” said Splinter, holding aside the curtain so Harry could step out of the alcove more easily. “I know it.”  
  
 _Good in the way that you mean it and the way I mean it aren’t the same thing,_ Harry thought, and ducked past him into the open. He heard the crowd gathered around the Lightfinder’s stage roar at the sight of him.  _And what’s that mean, that someone with powerful magic will suffer less in Lethe?_  
  
Well, he had always known the Ministry was doing things mostly for its own benefit, and that they didn’t plan to do something harmless. Right now, he put on his bland smile and his crowd face, and prepared to render them speechless with awe and terror.  
  
*  
  
Draco paused when he saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye. There was a seemingly empty portrait frame on the wall of this library, yes, and Draco had wondered who would use it, since it seemed to contain nothing but a softly silver-grey background. On the other hand, it hadn’t bothered him much.  
  
Until now.  
  
Draco sat up and laid his book down beside him, making sure his wand was near to hand. If the Aurors intended to force an entrance to Potter’s house in a new place, now that they knew the doors and Floo were watched, Draco intended to be ready. “If that’s you, Aster, you might as well stop playing and just show up.”  
  
The flicker came back, and the grey surface surged, dancing as though someone was beneath a pool of mercury trying to force a way out. Then Aster stepped into the foreground of the portrait, brushed off the silver drops clinging to his robes, and nodded briskly to Draco. “You’re more observant than you look.”  
  
Draco gave him a pleasant smile. “I had to run for my life and freedom not too long ago. Of course I’m going to be.”  
  
Aster paused, and the one silver drop left on his robes trickled down and towards the bottom of the picture frame. But he didn’t take his eyes from Draco’s face, and certainly didn’t seem to notice the drop. “Yes,” he murmured. “Well. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, and I had to wait until Potter was out.”  
  
Draco waited with his hand on his wand. He had thought of bringing up the Unseen and what Potter had told him about Aster being a member, but for now, he didn’t want to. It was always possible that that knowledge was what Aster was going to offer him.  
  
Aster only said, however, “I think Potter would be opposed to casting any  _real_ spells.”  
  
“What were the ones you’ve showed us up until now?” Draco ran his fingers slowly over the soothing wood of his wand. “Fake ones?”  
  
“You understand nothing,’ said Aster in a hiss. For a moment, Draco thought he would take his leave in high indignation, probably having decided that Draco wasn’t worth teaching, along with Potter. But instead, Aster took a deep breath and settled back against the frame, eyes narrowed as he studied Draco. “Listen. The spells I’ve showed you so far are tiny. You know that, if you think about it. Useful, but not really Dark. The rest of the knowledge, what I’ve accumulated during my existence, is still waiting for you.”  
  
“But not for Potter.” Draco was impressed with himself. He had kept his voice utterly steady and calm, his face blank and neutral.  
  
“Of course not.” Aster made an impatient motion with his hand. “You yourself told me about the rivalry you had with this boy in school. Why would you care about what he can learn and what he can’t?”  
  
“What I think is that he’s the legal owner of this house, and the one who took me in when he didn’t have to,” Draco said. “The one we’ll have nothing without if he gets arrested by the Ministry. For example, if he practices magic that leaves a visible trace of Dark Arts around him. Or has someone in the house who does.”  
  
“I can show you ways to fool any magic-detection spells that the  _modern_  Ministry can possibly have come up with,” said Aster, and sneered as he said it. “That isn’t a problem.”  
  
“The other?” Draco cocked his head. “That Potter was the one who offered me sanctuary, and I can’t exist separate from it?”  
  
“There are ways to change the ownership of a pure-blood house,” said Aster, and looked pleased with himself. “Especially when one possible heir has a closer blood tie than the other. You are the son of a daughter of the House of Black. Potter is only a grandson. Yes, we can bind you in and make you sole owner of the house.”  
  
 _We have to make sure that Weasley never meets Aster,_ Draco thought.  _Just what he was afraid of._ But he shook his head, making sure that his face remained calm, relaxed, even amused. Outright rejection of Aster’s offer would only alienate him, and if he was allied with those powerful Unseen, that could mean disaster. “No. I don’t want it.”  
  
“You don’t want the power to control your own destiny?” Aster stared at him for a long moment before his face hardened as if all the paint in the portrait was rushing and thickening together. “Have I sired  _two_ weak descendants?”  
  
“I don’t know why you think Potter’s weak,” Draco said, and let his wand sag loosely into his clasped hands. “After all, he’s managed the spells you showed us, and sometimes faster than I did. And he’s taken up arms against a lot of people and assumptions that he believed all his life were good and true.”  
  
“He does not have the heart or stomach to do what must be done if we are to restore Dark wizards to political prominence.” For a moment, Aster’s fingers flexed like claws. “And this is the only chance that we have had to do that in generations. Didn’t you come to Potter _because_ that’s what you wanted to do?”  
  
“I wanted a chance to live,” Draco said. “It’s true that I think I can only live if people at least tolerate Dark wizards, because I’ll never be able to change my affinity. But that’s not the same thing as feeling political loyalty to people who’ve never helped me.”   
  
Aster paused for a long second, his eyes empty. Then he nodded and said, “I know what I have to do now.” And he disappeared from the portrait frame.  
  
Draco breathed out slowly and settled back in the chair. That had gone differently from what he’d imagined, although he’d thought he’d have a confrontation with Aster about Potter one of these days. But he didn’t know what that last sentence meant, and he suspected he would want to very soon.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
He started, for a moment thinking Potter had returned, although he’d never heard Potter calling him by his first name. Then he turned around and saw Astoria standing behind him with her arms full of scrolls and her eyes so wide that they seemed ready to fall out of her head.  
  
“Astoria.” Draco smiled and patted the chair beside him. She came drifting over and piled the scrolls at her feet. Draco bent down to look at them, and blinked when both the smell of dust and the sharp-sparking smell of Preservation Charms blew up his nose. “Are you all right? What did you find?” Because if she had been into the older libraries of the Black family, libraries ancient enough that they had scrolls instead of books, she would have found something.  
  
“It might be nothing,” said Astoria, and looked down for a second. But a moment later, she was meeting his eyes again. Draco nodded approvingly. Astoria wasn’t as shy and dawdling as she’d been before they came here. Potter himself hadn’t had much to do with the change, Draco thought, but an independent research task had done wonders for her self-confidence.  
  
“I don’t think you would be here if it was.” Draco picked up one of the oldest and thickest scrolls, and looked at the title.  _Changing Magical Affinities._  
  
A cold wind seemed to breathe down his neck. Hadn’t he just told Aster there was no way to do that? He wondered if Aster had known there was, and that was one reason he had chosen to vanish.  
  
“Draco?” Astoria said again. “I think—I think that there were people who tried to do something like the Lightfinder once before. Only they didn’t call it the Lightfinder, of course.” Her face was bright pink, but with excitement and not terror, Draco thought, as she took the scroll from him and unrolled it. “They called it the Releaser.”  
  
“And it was supposed to show them someone’s affinity?” Draco shook his head, not wanting to push back against the first discovery that Astoria had made on her own, but not understanding why she thought it was a discovery, either. “We already found the Soul Revelation Spell that did that.”  
  
“Yes,” said Astoria, “but the Lightfinder doesn’t just show someone’s affinity, does it?”  
  
Draco blinked, wondering if she’d had her brain affected by the constant  _Prophet_ stories that stated the Lightfinder also showed a tainted soul. She shouldn’t have been, but people who had acted rationally during the war were running around right now like chickens. “Of course it does. That’s what we’re trying to convince them of.”  
  
This time, it was Astoria’s turn to stare blankly at him. Then she said, “Oh! Pansy didn’t tell you?”  
  
“Pansy is probably keeping six secrets at once from me,” Draco said, and he managed to say it dryly instead of getting upset. “What particular one was this?”  
  
“Well, I did think she’d told you,” said Astoria, and picked up a different scroll. “This describes what happened with the Releaser when they first tested it. It was in private, with a group of Unspeakables. And Pansy was the one who noticed what it said about how it worked. I mean, the first time. They tested it later, and got it to stop doing that.”  
  
Draco followed her pointing finger to a line of dusty black words on the top of the scroll.  
  
 _A most unexpected Result! The Releaser touched the Minds of those who were Present; it afflicted them with Concern and Surprise, and then Fear. It was fascinating how fast the Fear overcame them. I was not affected, but I stood behind the Wondrous Machine and did not see the Glow in the same way. We will find out what caused the Reaction and correct it. It would be Inconvenient for us to affect the Public in this Way when we use it._  
  
It took Draco a moment to find what Astoria was talking about. And then he caught his breath and leaned back to look at her. “You think that the Lightfinder is causing extra fear when they use it?”  
  
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Astoria’s eyes shone, and she made a little motion with one hand as though she was trying to scoop something up and throw it away. “These people had a machine that did at first, and we don’t really know how they developed the Lightfinder. It wasn’t here, and then it was. And they had to perfect it, and they said they’d been working on it for a long time. What if they found some old notes about the Releaser or something, and they realized they could make a device that would show someone’s affinity, but they didn’t read far enough to realize it would also cause problems?”  
  
“Just like Light wizards,” Draco muttered, and then stiffened a little when he realized how much he sounded like Aster, but Astoria only laughed.  
  
“I think some of them are Dark wizards and don’t know they are,” she said. “Like Potter.” Then she made a face. “But they won’t put themselves through the Lightfinder until one of them does something stupid, like criticizing the Ministry. They’ll keep putting  _our_ names on the list, and testing us, and deciding that we’re dangerous, when they’re the ones who didn’t even know what using this machine would do.”  
  
Draco grinned at her. “This is  _wonderful,_ Astoria. It’s something else we can use to undermine their trust in the government.”  
  
Astoria blushed prettily. “Isn’t it? But we need to make sure that some of those pamphlets we already have written, about the Soul Revelation Spell, are distributed first.” She paused in gathering up the scrolls and looked hesitantly at him. “And are we sure that Potter’s new tactic about telling everyone he’s hearing the Dark Lord’s voice won’t undermine  _us_?”  
  
Draco sighed and shook his head. “That’s not something he discussed with me before he did it. He felt he had to do it to free his friends from prison, and so he went ahead and did it. But no, I think we can still spread this information. For one thing, we can puzzle everyone so much that they won’t know what to trust at all. And then we can start spreading the truth.”  
  
“How are we going to distinguish the truth from the rumors?”  
  
Draco smiled. He had some ideas on that score, connected with some of the “not-real” spells that Aster had deigned to teach him. “Oh, I know. Let’s get to that point, the point where we can actually  _do_ it, and then we’ll see.”  
  
*  
  
It happened after Harry had made his bows to gasps and clapping and shouted concerns for him—most people did seem to think that he wasn’t guilty or evil now that they “knew” Voldemort’s soul was influencing him—and the Aurors had ushered him off the stage that contained the Lightfinder and back towards the Ministry.  
  
Suddenly, there were people with dark masks racing along the sides, keeping pace with the Aurors and firing so many Body-Bind Spells and Stunners from their wands that Harry wasn’t surprised to see the Aurors falling. Harry reached for his own wand, but he had to duck a Stunner aimed straight at him, and he wasn’t able to get hold of it.  
  
“Not him, you idiot!” snarled a deep, horribly familiar voice. “It would be insolence of the worst sort to curse our  _Lord_ into sleep!”  
  
Harry snatched the wand, even as another Stunner flew past his head from someone who wasn’t listening, and spun to face Fenrir Greyback.  
  
He had thought the werewolf had fled the country; that had been the report of those Aurors who were hunting down the Death Eaters, because they’d looked for months and hadn’t been able to find him. Greyback was kind of recognizable, too, and not known for being very cautious. Someone should at least have been able to track a werewolf massacre back and find out that it was him that way.  
  
But no, here was Greyback, looking worn-down and feverish but still as terrifying and shaggy as ever, making a deep bow to Harry. Then he straightened up and murmured, “My Lord, forgive the treatment we must give your mortal shell for the moment.”  
  
Harry, knowing full well what  _that_ meant, dodged the curse that flew at him. It was probably no worse than one that would send him to sleep, given how much it looked like a Stunner, but Harry still wasn’t keen on the thought of it being used against him.  
  
Greyback snarled and twisted his body, following Harry’s motions so fluidly that Harry felt his throat thicken for a second. He hadn’t received any Auror training. He didn’t think he was going to be good enough to counter an enraged werewolf.  
  
But instead of suffering from one of Greyback’s spells, he heard pounding footsteps, and a crunching sound. Greyback’s eyes rolled back in his skull, and he slumped to the ground. A few of the other wizards who had come with him Apparated away, but the rest apparently slammed against the enchantments that prevented it when they tried. Then more Aurors closed in, and Harry sighed in relief as he watched them arrest the Death Eaters.  
  
“Mr. Potter? Are you all right?”  
  
Harry looked up. Splinter was standing in front of him, and if he didn’t care all that much about Harry he obviously wanted him to survive until his experiment with Lethe was complete, because he was examining him minutely now. Harry managed to nod, and mutter, “It was just—really shocking to see Greyback appear out of nowhere like that.”  
  
“And perhaps you were hearing a voice in your head whisper to you about him?”  
  
Harry didn’t know whether Splinter distrusted his story or was just trying to uncover more material about how a Horcrux worked. But at a certain point, they had to take risks—more than just the risk of rebelling in secret against the Ministry. Someone could always misinterpret something that had happened, the way they had with his aura in the first place. It was time for Harry, and his allies, to take control and set out some of their own rumors.  
  
Harry paused as if thinking, then shook his head. “Not about him. I think that Voldemort wanted to be taken away and restored to control of my body again.”  
  
“But?” Splinter prompted him, eyes shining.  
  
Harry inclined his head. “Sometimes I think the voice has warned me about things like a stair missing at Grimmauld Place. Voldemort wants me to survive until he can take control.” He grimaced. “And I don’t want him to. I think—I think I might be encouraging him with the magic I can perform.” He lowered his voice into a whisper. “Like the spells I’ve been performing in the tests designed to strengthen Lethe.”  
  
Splinter blinked rapidly. “Those tests are just designed to make Lethe safer for you, Mr. Potter.”  
  
“I know,” said Harry, and was gladder than ever of the invisible amulet around his neck, so he could lie like a champion. “But  _he_ wakes up and gets excited when I practice those spells. Whispers to me about how he could control the magic.” Harry closed his eyes and didn’t have to feign his shudder. Although the Horcrux hadn’t ever whispered to him that he knew of, the mere  _thought_ was disgusting. “When I do magic on my own, he doesn’t.”  
  
Splinter looked disturbed when Harry opened his eyes again. “You think—you think that he wants you to become Darker and Darker. That suggests we  _should_ have you continue to cast Light magic.”  
  
Harry held Splinter’s eyes. “But not all the spells that you have me cast during the tests for Lethe are Light magic, are they?”  
  
Splinter stood there and stared at him with wide, stricken eyes for a second. Then he muttered, “I need to study this. I need to do more research,” and turned away and ran back towards the Ministry, leaving Harry, in the custody of the Aurors, to follow at a more sedate pace.  
  
Harry walked slowly, recovering from the shock of the ambush and the moment when he’d been sure that Greyback was going to grab hold of him. He had another piece in play now. He didn’t know how well it would work.  
  
But it might at least make Splinter think before beginning the use of Lethe as soon as possible, and that would mean more tests—and more time before they began to use Lethe at all.  
  
Harry was beginning to think that never mind resisting that machine; never being put into it at all would be an  _extremely_ good thing.


	15. Unexpected News

“So I got attacked by Death Eaters today.”  
  
 _Of course_ Potter saved that piece of news for when Draco had food in his mouth. He barely managed to swallow, glaring at Potter the while. Across from him, Astoria swallowed hastily, and only then permitted herself to gape at Potter.  
  
Pansy, meanwhile, turned to Draco and said conversationally, “So is it me, or does Potter enjoy the chance to fuck with our heads?”  
  
“It’s just you,” said Potter, and his nostrils flared in irritation that Draco had to admit looked better on him than some of the goody-goody Gryffindor emotions he had to practice showing in front of the Aurors. “I announced it last because it failed, and because it was a sudden and disorganized attack. I don’t think they really knew what they were doing.”  
  
“ _And_ because you like fucking with us,” said Draco, aiming his wand at the spilled soup on the table. “There was no other reason to wait until I had soup in my mouth. You could have done it any other time.”  
  
Potter considered that for a minute, and then a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “It wasn’t a conscious motivation.”  
  
Draco gave a sort of grin back. At least Potter was easier to work with when he admitted his Slytherin side like this. For that matter, Draco would have found a lot of the Gryffindors more tolerable if they’d admitted to breaking rules or pranking Slytherins for their own purposes, instead of trying to pretend they were being noble about it. “Who led them?”  
  
“Fenrir Greyback.”  
  
Not smiling this time, Draco narrowed his eyes. “I thought he was supposed to have fled the country.”  
  
“Either he had and came back, or someone has been keeping him under control.” Potter paused and eyed Draco for a second. “There’s no way he would manage to hold himself back for this long, is there?”  
  
“I don’t see how,” Draco said slowly, considering what he knew of the werewolf. “No, definitely not. He could barely keep himself in control when the Dark Lord was alive.” He looked at Astoria and Pansy for a moment, but Astoria had never met Greyback and Pansy only turned her mouth down at him.  
  
“So we have another enemy to worry about,” Potter said, with a small sigh. “Maybe. It’s possible that Greyback did flee and came back.” He met Draco’s eyes. “He thought  _he_  was alive inside me. He apologized for having to knock me out, and then he tried it. Though not with a Stunner, I suppose.”  
  
Draco nodded slowly. “I think the flight is more likely. If even the Dark Lord couldn’t control him, this new leader, if he exists, would probably have had to allow Greyback some raids and activity now and then, to let him get his bloodlust out.”  
  
“That’s kind of what I hoped.” Potter leaned back and thumped his fingers on the table for a second. “So I managed to convince Splinter that it’s not a good idea for me to cast Dark magic. And got my first absolute confirmation that some of the spells they’ve been having me cast to ‘test’ Lethe aren’t Light.”  
  
“I could have told you that if you could remember the bloody spells,” Draco muttered, annoyed. Potter sometimes recalled incantations and the like, but more often he said he couldn’t remember everything they’d had him do.  
  
Potter rolled his eyes at Draco. “They’re keeping me as ignorant as possible. I can tell you when I remember the incantation, but otherwise, it’s not like they tell me the names of new spells before I cast them.”  
  
Draco had to concede that after a moment. _And they would take it amiss if Potter started asking now, after being content to labor in ignorance for so long._ He managed to keep a pleasant expression on his face as he asked, “So what do we do now?”  
  
Potter paused and eyed him for a second, then said, “I think we’ve established some good contacts. We should go about using them.”  
  
“Longbottom, you mean?” Draco scratched his chin and leaned back in his chair, thinking. He knew Longbottom had been good at Herbology, but for the moment, he couldn’t think of a way that particular discipline could help. “I know he’s not under suspicion and he’s willing to help, but so are others. What’s particularly distinctive about him?”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking only of Neville,” said Potter, giving Draco the kind of look that told Draco he was exasperated right back. “But for one thing, he can get unquestioned access to the Potions Department at the Ministry.”  
  
Draco hissed at himself, irritated he’d forgotten that. “And you think we should check whether some of the potions that Pansy and Astoria discovered are being brewed?” Those had turned up along with spells meant to show Dark or Light affinity—potions that were supposed to give one “control” of Dark wizards, or lessen their ability to perform certain kinds of spells.  
  
“Yes,” said Potter. “We’ll have to get him the descriptions of the potions and the like, but that’s not that difficult compared to some other things we’ve done.”  
  
Draco nodded, and looked over at Astoria. She promptly turned red and shook her head. Draco didn’t cluck his tongue, but he wanted to. He understood many of Pansy’s motivations to want limited interaction with Potter. Astoria had never had much reason to despise or fear him before this, and yet she had insisted that Draco tell Potter about the Releaser.  
  
“That’s a good idea,” said Draco, standing up. “In the meantime, I’ve got some research that Astoria found to show you.” He was at least going to give his friend credit for the discovery in words, if she wouldn’t take it any other way.  
  
*  
  
Harry put the book down, feeling a little sick. “And you think the Lightfinder has the same effects as the untested Releaser,” he said flatly.  
  
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy lounged back against the chair in front of him, eyes bright and direct and focused on Harry. “How the crowds started immediately reacting like scared rabbits, even turning against  _you_ , who they favored until you climbed up on the stage.” He tapped one leg against the table between them. “The spread of this fear of Dark wizards has been too fast to have helped without magical help. Maybe it was brewing under the surface, but  _still_.”  
  
Harry looked at the book again and nodded. It did make a horrible kind of sense. Even Kingsley, who had seemed strong to Harry in his stance against Dark wizards but not afraid of them in the same way he had been since Harry’s test, could have been influenced if the Lightfinder did spawn fear when it worked.  
  
However, he had one question he hoped Malfoy could answer. “Would they have based the Lightfinder on the untested notes from the Releaser, though? Why not the updated version, if they made one?”  
  
“If they made one,” Malfoy echoed, and cast him a sarcastic glance. “How long do you think they worked on this? How quickly? Do you think they did any work on such a machine during the war, when the Dark Lord was in control of the Ministry?”  
  
“Probably not,” Harry had to concede. It wouldn’t have mattered so much to Voldemort whether people were Dark or not, just if they opposed him or were Muggleborn, and the Unspeakables had probably been put to work on torture devices.  
  
Malfoy nodded decisively. “Based on its effect, then I think this is the same as that Releaser these notes talk about.”  
  
Harry sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. His head was madly swimming, colors and notions darting around him as if he had jumped into an ocean and his eyes couldn’t focus. “So, where do we go from here? Zabini still has the plan to destroy the Lightfinder. Is this going to modify that?”  
  
“I doubt it. But I’ll be contacting Blaise and letting him know this new information.” Malfoy paused, and then shifted a little and said, “Potter.”  
  
That tone made Harry open his eyes quickly. It almost sounded the way Malfoy had when he was challenging Harry at a Quidditch game or inviting him to a wizards’ duel or something, and although Harry had no idea what could have made Malfoy react like that, he  _did_ know he might have to move quickly soon.  
  
Malfoy was gazing at him broodingly, but he didn’t have his wand out. Harry supposed that was something, but it made him a little impatient. He put his hand under his chin and gave Malfoy a steady stare.  
  
Then Malfoy did flick his wand, but it was to cast a hovering, mirror-like wall in front of the nearest portrait frame. Harry blinked and didn’t move as he watched Malfoy lower his wand again and touch his forehead.  
  
“Aster came and spoke to me while you were gone,” said Malfoy. “He thinks you’re weak because you aren’t committed to the idea of being a Dark wizard.”  
  
Harry snorted. “You were the one who taught me that it wasn’t an idea, it’s a kind of power I have whether I want to or not.” His neck was strained, he realized, the cords on either side of it standing out tensely. He rubbed at them. “You’d think Aster would realize that, in his infinite wisdom.”  
  
“You’re not committed to the idea of Dark wizards achieving political prominence, though,” Malfoy continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “And he’s decided that I’m not dedicated enough for him, either, and he has to do something about me.”  
  
Harry stared. “He told you that?”  
  
“No, I assumed it from the way he acted disappointed in me, then said he knew what to do now and disappeared.” Malfoy rolled his eyes at Harry. “I think it’s a pretty safe extrapolation, though.”  
  
Harry frowned, his stomach twisting, and lifted his hand to toy with the amulet the Unseen had given him. There was a reason to distrust them if Aster wasn’t faithful to him and Malfoy, and maybe another one, if he had decided that he was going to resist going to Lethe at all costs. They had told him to resist only when he was actually  _in_ the machine. “So what do you think we should do?”  
  
“Maintain a low profile, for now,” said Malfoy, and shrugged. “The spells he can teach us are still useful. So is the knowledge that we can learn from him.”  
  
“If it’s true.”  
  
Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “I do have a spell I can use to detect lies. I rarely use it because it needs to be renewed at the start of each conversation and it’s often visible that one is casting it, but I can use it on him out of his angle of vision.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Fine. Is there—I want to know if there’s something more active we can do than this.”  
  
“More active than research, and sending tendrils out to the world so we can change things?” Malfoy blinked at him. “I don’t know what more  _active_ things you’d have us do. You’ve had the most ‘active’ career since Astoria, Pansy, and I came here, and you’ve faced danger and people manipulating you.” He looked obviously at the invisible amulet around Harry’s neck. “I don’t know what else you want.”  
  
“I want—to be out on the front lines, I suppose,” said Harry, and gave an embarrassed smile when Malfoy snorted. “I know the war probably spoiled me, but I was able to personally influence it, you know.”  
  
“This time, you can, too,” Malfoy said impatiently. “You just have to do it with words and subtle actions instead of all in front.”  
  
Harry would have responded, but there was a sharp flicker around him, and through his body at the same time. Harry gasped and grabbed the amulet, wondering for a second if the Unseen had managed to hurt him through it, but the flicker repeated, and then Harry knew what it was. Several of the house’s wards had failed.  
  
“Fuck,” said Malfoy.  
  
His voice steadied Harry. If someone else was afraid, then he had to take over their defense. That had been true on the Horcrux quest, and it was true now. He drew his wand and nodded to Malfoy. “Stay here,” he murmured. “You know spells that you can raise around the room, and there’s the secret passages.”  
  
“I know  _this_ spell, too,” said Malfoy, his voice sharp with raw fear. Harry had never heard him so terrified in Hogwarts. “It’s a Dark one that’s meant to corrupt wards, not bring them down. Someone cast it wrong. This isn’t Aurors, Potter.”  
  
“Some of them might know Dark Arts and want to cast them—”  
  
“We’re arguing, and it’s  _useless_.” Malfoy touched Harry solidly in the middle of his back with his palm. “I want to be with you, and I want to get Pansy and Astoria, too. We’ll be safest with you.”  
  
Harry could feel his mouth crimp in anger, but Malfoy had come here for that exact reason, hadn’t he? He finally had to nod. “Fine, but hurry.”  
  
Malfoy slipped away without arguing, and Harry paced in a circle, before he finally went to the top of the stairs and thought to call Kreacher. The house-elf appeared, but the customary noise he always did it with was muffled, and his eyes were darting around the room.  
  
“Who is it, Kreacher?” Harry asked quietly.  
  
“Oh, Kreacher  _knows_ them,” Kreacher hissed. “The ones that Master Regulus fought.”  
  
 _Death Eaters, then._  Harry tightened his hold on his wand. It seemed that whatever  _had_ been holding Greyback restrained until now, self-control or a mysterious master, had finally let him slip the leash. It made sense that he could figure out a way to track Harry down at home and break the wards, now that so many people at the Ministry knew where he lived.  
  
A noise at the door made Harry crouch, but it was  _his_ Slytherins coming back, and Harry nodded and stood up. “Come on,” he breathed, barely letting his voice echo. “Stay behind me. It’s Death Eaters.”  
  
“Greyback?” Malfoy asked, and Harry started. He knew Malfoy would know to keep quiet, too, but somehow he hadn’t translated that into the thought that Malfoy would come up close behind him, his breath brushing across the lobe of Harry’s ear.  
  
Harry only shrugged, though, and began to move down the stairs. Malfoy was beside him immediately, and reached out and ringed Harry’s wrist with his fingers. Harry looked at him impatiently. It was still true that he was the one best-suited to defend them, even if Malfoy had learned some tricks from Death Eaters during the war.  
  
Malfoy shook his left arm, and tipped his head towards it. It took Harry a moment to realize what he meant. Something to do with the Dark Mark.  
  
Harry pursed his lips, then nodded. Why not? That wasn’t a defensive technique he could use, and whatever Malfoy had in mind, it might be something that would at least startle the other Death Eaters, who couldn’t know he was here.  
  
Malfoy stepped back, and whispered something to Parkinson that made her grin. Harry was suddenly sort of glad that he’d never had to face her on the battlefield. She’d been something special in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but her grin said she knew nasty things were coming up, and relished it.  
  
Parkinson lifted her wand, and Harry heard a hasty movement downstairs. He tensed. He hoped Malfoy and Parkinson started their diversion soon. He didn’t want to let Greyback and the others damage things because the Slytherins were taking a long time to get their spells ready.  
  
Then, abruptly, Malfoy whispered something, and the Dark Mark rose above the stairs. At the same moment, Parkinson cast a spell, and Voldemort’s laugh sprang up from her mouth. Harry started. It  _was_ the laugh.  
  
Of course Parkinson had probably used a Recalling Charm, a spell that would imitate a specific sound or scent someone had in mind, but Harry had never heard of one being used that way. He supposed Dark wizards didn’t have to use Dark spells  _all_ the time.  
  
And it wasn’t something that he would have thought of himself.  
  
“Kneel, you fools,” Harry said a second later, catching on to the plan when Malfoy’s elbow nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Or do you not know whose body I am currently inhabiting? Were you planning to try and knock me unconscious  _again_?” He made his way slowly and majestically down the stairs, beneath the Dark Mark, although his stomach churned and ached.  
  
The rush of what sounded like people falling to their knees reassured Harry that  _part_ of their plan was working, at least. Now, time to see who had come to visit them, and how far they could fool them.  
  
The whole way down the staircase, Harry felt Malfoy’s tense, impatient presence at his elbow. It was oddly like a blessing.  
  
*  
  
Draco knew that a lot depended on the next few minutes. There was no saying they could fool the Death Eaters who had come into believing forever that the Dark Lord had taken control of Potter’s body, but they could do it long enough to get into an advantageous position as far as the battle was concerned. He thought.  
  
But he had to admit that his main emotion at the moment, watching Potter’s stiffened back and strutting walk down the stairs in front of him, was pride. He wouldn’t have thought a Gryffindor could act like this, or would be  _willing_ to. Willing to walk forwards under the Dark Mark? That wasn’t a lot of Gryffindors in the first place, and it had to be doubly repugnant for Harry Potter.  
  
But he was doing it. He was a lot smarter than Draco had thought, and more practical.  
  
That meant they could work together.  
  
Potter went into the drawing room where the mantel loomed over the books and shelves and couches as if it was scowling down at them. Draco frowned a little when he saw the empty portrait frame, another one he had never seen before, squatting above the mantel, but he turned his attention rapidly to the Death Eaters.  
  
One of them was indeed Fenrir Greyback, and behind him, Draco made out Alexander Yaxley and Arsinoe Rosier. The others he didn’t recognize. They might not have been part of the Inner Circle.  
  
“My Lord,” whispered Greyback, and crawled cringing to Potter’s feet. He stuck out his tongue for a second as though he was going to lick Potter’s shoes. Draco hoped Potter would be able to permit that, if it had to happen. Draco had to admit he would have been hard-pressed to allow it, himself. “Forgive us our earlier actions. We thought there was no way you could have regained control after what  _Potter_ announced—”  
  
“Did it _once_ occur to you, Fenrir, that I was capable of lying low and letting Potter make some decisions so that he would not feel he had to force me out?” Potter stalked away from Fenrir and towards the mantel, where he leaned one elbow and looked at the ragged collection of Death Eaters with disgust in his eyes. Well, he didn’t have to feign that much, Draco acknowledged, standing stiffly at attention near the doorway. “And this is what is left for me to work with, the remains of a once-proud army.  _Well_.” Potter shut his eyes and sighed. “If I have to do it, then I will.”   
  
He smiled suddenly, and Draco shivered. There was an echo of the Dark Lord in Potter’s smile that he didn’t like, that made him wonder whether the leftover part of the Dark Lord’s soul might be awakening in Potter’s head after all.   
  
“But we can do this,” Potter whispered. “The danger will be the greater for us in a world determined to punish Dark wizards, but we can make this work.”  
  
“Forgive me, my Lord, but…”  
  
It was Arsinoe Rosier. Draco thought he was probably already standing too stiffly to reveal his fear, but he did feel it. Rosier was trouble, someone who could probe around the edges of even the Dark Lord’s plans and suggest changes without arousing his wrath. Draco wasn’t surprised she had escaped capture so far. She was smarter than most of them.  
  
“Yes?” asked Potter, with a hint of a hiss around the words.  
  
Rosier lifted her head. She had her hand at her sleeve in a way that would mean a drawn wand in a moment, Draco thought. He was only glad that he already had his out and could counter her if he had to. Potter was standing at the wrong angle—or the right one, for a curse. “How do we  _know_ that you’re the Dark Lord and not Potter trying to trick us?” She glanced around at the other Death Eaters, as if trying to recruit someone to stand at her back that way. “Potter was clever and tricky, in the end. What’s your proof that you’re the Dark Lord?”  
  
Potter closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to sway. Draco stood there with his lips sealed, wondering if this was the moment they should begin the attack. He knew things about Rosier’s activities during the war that he could have told Potter, but on the other hand, he couldn’t do it this way without being obvious.  
  
Then Potter began to hiss.  
  
Draco wanted to faint. He knew, and Pansy knew, and maybe Astoria, about Potter’s use of Parseltongue, but none of the Death Eaters here had been in Hogwarts, or in some cases out of Azkaban, at the time of that fateful duel in their second year. Draco watched as transfixed as the rest of them, but this time, he wondered what Potter was saying.  
  
The longer Potter hissed, the more Rosier’s head bowed, until she was looking at the floor and her fingers were clenched around the corner of her robe instead of her wand. When Potter finished, she looked up with tears standing in her eyes.  
  
“My Lord,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but we had to be sure it was you.”  
  
“I have already begun to gather my faithful followers again,” said Potter, with a nod to Draco, who stiffened a little. They hadn’t discussed  _this_. But Potter turned away again before Draco could make a comment, and focused on Rosier. “Now. We shall discuss what means I may take to regain a body. The Ministry is preparing an experiment known as Lethe through which they plan to convert  _Potter_ from a Dark wizard to a Light one.” He spat the name with convincing fervor, so convincing that Draco wondered for a moment if Potter had ever wanted to be a different person. “I believe we may be able to harness the power of change in the machine and use it to make a new body for me. You are to find out anything you can about it, and steal the notes that the Unspeakables have on it for me.”  
  
Draco wanted to laugh hysterically, but he managed to hold it in. Potter had been wishing he could do something more active, and here it was: commanding their own little cadre of Death Eater spies who thought he was the Dark Lord reborn.  
  
It couldn’t last. Surely not.  
  
But as Potter continued spinning his convincing lies and the Death Eaters listened with devotion, Draco decided that for now, it seemed likely to succeed. Against all odds.  
  
He did notice that Yaxley and a few of the others were studying him narrowly, and he remained standing with his eyes aimed straight forwards. He would discuss what those stares might mean with Potter later.  
  
There was a later. There would be.  
  
And as always around Potter, the crazier things got, the more chances of survival they seemed to have.


	16. An Exchange of Sentiments

“We know that someone struck at the wards,” said the Auror who had led the way into Harry’s drawing room, his mouth set in a violent line. Harry didn’t recognize him. He had dark blue eyes and black hair. He looked a little like Tom Riddle.  
  
Harry used that memory, and the certainty of the invisible amulet around his neck, to pull himself up and turn a cold glance on the Aurors. “I don’t know why you’re so certain that it was an enemy, and not someone from the Ministry.”  
  
The Auror paused. He wanted to open his mouth and ask what Harry meant, Harry was  _certain_ of that. Yet he stood there awkwardly instead, and the people who had come through the Floo behind him exchanged glances.  
  
“Because the fact is,” Harry continued, and his voice was bitter and he didn’t care who heard it, in fact that was part of the deception, “I felt the wards shudder, and as though someone was forcing magic through my body to make up for the disruption. And it was so much like the sensations that I’ve felt during some of the tests to get me ready for Lethe that I didn’t blink. I assumed it was one of  _your_ lot.”  
  
“How could you think…” The Auror seemed honestly breathless, bewildered. He looked around as though he could find the indentations in the carpet where the Death Eaters had knelt. But Harry knew they didn’t exist, and this Auror didn’t know about the Death Eaters, and he stood there and glared coldly until the man turned back towards him. “We came as soon as we could.”  
  
“But not immediately, right?” Harry asked, and his lips moved in a thin smile.  _They_ didn’t have to know that the smile was because he was grateful for that little fact, which had allowed him to give the Death Eaters some instructions and bundle his own Slytherins out of sight. “Why not? If there was a disruption at my house caused by  _me_ attempting to leave and go somewhere and you hurried over as soon as you felt it, why not now? An attack from outside, an attack that corrupted my wards?”  
  
The Auror was silent. The others were silent. Harry swept his gaze back and forth, and finally said, in the icy, withering tone that he remembered Aunt Petunia using when he hadn’t finished his chores, “ _Why_?”  
  
It was a woman who answered, someone with blond hair a little like Malfoy’s, but darker, from the back row of Aurors. “Because of the Death Eater attack that happened to you, sir. The Ministry thought it was probably Death Eaters again, and only wanted to choose prepared volunteers. It took a while to get us together.”  
  
The handsome Auror gave her a poisonous glare. Harry didn’t let his surprise, his reaction to finally getting a true answer, show. He only nodded and said in a voice they could take as sad if they wanted to, “I see.”  
  
“It’s not that,” said the handsome Auror insistently, turning back to him. “Not only that. The Minister has to think about his image, with the people so restless and prone to turn to rumors of Dark wizards lately. He has to think about what would happen if an Auror was injured investigating something that—”  
  
“But he doesn’t have to worry about me, right?” Harry ducked his head and shook it. The amulet was one thing, but he didn’t know if he would be able to keep the emotions he felt, half-anger and half-laughter, off his face. The amulet might not be up to disguising them. “Because I’m a Dark wizard.”  
  
“That’s  _not_ the reason!” The leader was almost spitting now. “We came as soon as we could!”  
  
“Because you had to get a volunteer force together,” said Harry blandly, and looked around at them. “Tell me. Is that not only people who would volunteer to go up against Death Eaters, but people who would volunteer to save a Dark wizard instead of just letting him rot?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Harry sighed. “How quickly the wizarding world forgets what I did for it,” he muttered, and then turned and went towards the stairs.  
  
“Wait!” It was the Auror behind him, almost stamping his foot. “You haven’t told us who attacked your wards!”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and turned around again. “It was Fenrir Greyback. You have good instincts,” he said, and clapped his hands a little.  
  
The Auror’s mouth tightened, but Harry thought he was learning to ignore the provocation. “Then why didn’t he—why wasn’t he inside?”  _And you ripped to pieces and lying all over the floor?_ Harry could almost hear the silent question.  
  
“Because I defeated him,” said Harry, and wrung his wrist as if holding his wand all this time had hurt his hand. He turned to the side, and let their eyes imagine other wounds beneath his clothes. “Because he was with a few other Death Eaters, but they hung back and let him do all the work.” He smiled grimly. “Maybe they thought he was capable, since, after all, if he was here, he must have  _escaped_ Auror custody, after you captured him when he tried to attack me. Didn’t he?”  
  
Further silence, thick and suffocating. Then the female Auror who had spoken up so far stepped forwards and said, “Can we try to explain it to you, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“He doesn’t deserve an explanation, Deirdre!” hissed the handsome Auror.  
  
“I think he does,” said Deirdre, and when she went on, no one interrupted. “Yes, Greyback escaped us. We left him in the custody of a junior Auror because we thought he was safely unconscious, and he snatched that Auror’s wand and escaped.”  
  
Harry only nodded, not looking away from Deirdre’s face. She was still an enemy, but he thought she was also someone who was trying sincerely to do her job.  
  
“And there are people who don’t think you deserve protection.” Deirdre shifted her weight and exhaled and said, “I think that’s wrong. If you’ve committed crimes, you should be tried for them, but a trial isn’t the same as caging you up indefinitely and—and saying you don’t deserve to be rescued from Death Eaters.”  
  
“No one has  _said_ that,” hissed the lead Auror from behind her, and moved up beside her this time. “It’s true that some people distrust you,” he told Harry, aiming his eyes a little away from Harry’s blank expression. “But no one has said you deserve to be left to Death Eaters. No one deserves that. It’s only fear that holds some of us back.”  
  
 _Of course it is,_ Harry longed badly to say.  _Fear is what makes you punish me without a trial, too—and you’ll punish anyone who shows Dark in the Lightfinder the same way._  
  
“I understand,” Harry said, when some time had gone past and it was obvious that the Aurors would neither say anything else nor leave until he responded. Even Deirdre had gone silent, watching him with a quiet, anxious expression. “And in the meantime, I’m to say inside the house and not leave, right?” He didn’t have to pretend about the sour note in his voice.  
  
“Yes,” said the tall Auror, and gave him another sharp look. “I find it hard to believe you defeated Death Eaters all by yourself.”  
  
Harry laughed sharply, and shook his head. “Then go ahead and investigate the house. Find them hiding, if you want.” He knew that the secret passages would shield Malfoy and Parkinson and Astoria effectively. “Or cast  _Priori Incantatem_ on my wand, and find out if I used Dark spells. Look at the damage to the wards, find out if someone came through them, and  _arrest me if you find something._ ” He took a step off the stairs and snarled at the Auror. “But don’t stand here and tell me I’m wrong and evil and all the rest of it, just because you’re afraid and have no proof.”  
  
“I didn’t call you wrong and evil,” said the Auror.  
  
“You didn’t rush to my side to protect me because I have a human life and I’m a frequent target of Death Eaters, either.” Harry shuddered and brushed a hand up and down his face, feeling as though he was wiping away an invisible layer of grime from their cowardice. Maybe this was just the result of the Lightfinder, but he’d been through enough for today. “Cast what spells you need to.”  
  
They did look through the house, especially at the Dark Arts books that perched on the shelves of the libraries, and cast spells that would have detected the use of Dark magic. Harry only watched them do it. He knew that Malfoy’s casting of the Dark Mark would have showed up most of the time, but the Aurors who came here were too paranoid, and had been for a while; they had fine-tuned their spells to look for Dark magic from  _him_ , and not anyone else. In this case, maybe it was just because they already knew the people who’d attacked his wards had used Dark magic, and they didn’t want that result confusing them.  
  
This time, it was going to defeat them.  
  
The Aurors finally stepped back and gathered in a line in front of him. The handsome one spun and tapped his wand on the railing of the bannister. “And you have nothing else you want to tell us?” he asked.  
  
Harry’s head ached from his tension. The amulet helped him lie, and so did his anger, but he still wasn’t a natural liar. He only shrugged and said, “No. That’s what happened. I defeated Greyback. I didn’t kill him, though,” he felt he had to add, because Greyback was going to get himself noticed whether or not he stayed “loyal” to the supposed shred of Voldemort inside Harry. “So you might want to watch for him.”  
  
The moment went on and on, with the Aurors staring at him, and then the handsome one turned away with a curse and walked to the door. Deirdre lingered behind for a moment, shaking her head at him. “If you know a different sort of truth, it would be better to tell us before they drag it out of you,” she said.  
  
“You were the one who pointed out a different sort of truth today,” he said.  
  
Deirdre hesitated a moment, then said, “I tested yellow in the Lightfinder. But I was a Slytherin, and they were suspicious of me until they put me through. That means I know what the fear is like. You shouldn’t encourage it.”  
  
“Do you think I am?”  
  
She bit her cheek and turned away. Harry watched the Aurors depart. Then he sat down on the stairs and put his head in his hands.  
  
 _We’ll have to see what happens from here._  
  
*  
  
“ _You_ deal with him,” Pansy told Draco as they watched Potter walk slowly up the stairs. “I can’t stand it when he gets all broody like that.”  
  
“How long have you even known he gets like that?” Draco protested as she stood up and retreated out the door of the library where the secret passage was that they’d hidden in. “Pansy—”  
  
But she was gone, and that left Draco to face Potter, who paused when he came into the door of the library and found Draco alone. Then he shrugged and sat down next to Draco on the same couch. Draco blinked. He had assumed that Potter would want to moan either about the Aurors or the Death Eaters, and either way, he would pace the room.  
  
Instead, Potter said simply, “They didn’t believe me, but they couldn’t find anything.”  
  
“Even the Dark Mark?” Draco shook his head. He thought the spell had been necessary at the time to convince Greyback and the others that the Dark Lord was the one in control of Potter’s body, but of course it was the one thing most likely to reveal the presence of something wrong to the Aurors. “I wonder why.”  
  
“They’ve tuned their spells to me,” said Potter. “They don’t know that you’re here.”  
  
Draco grunted, once, and stretched his arm along the back of the couch. It came dangerously near to Potter’s shoulders, but Potter ignored him.  _Fascinating._ Draco hoped that comfort, which his gesture had been deliberately designed to test, meant Potter would work with him more effectively in the future. “And you think the Death Eaters can do what you’ve commanded them to do?”  
  
“Either way, we win,” said Potter simply. “Either they’ll actually manage to learn more about Lethe than the Aurors are going to tell me, or they’ll get themselves caught breaking in. And then they’re out of the way.”  
  
“I think something could easily go wrong,” said Draco, but Potter only shrugged and turned towards him.  
  
“If that’s the case, then we’ll deal with it when we have to,” said Potter. “And in the meantime, we have other things to discuss.”  
  
Draco swallowed. He  _shouldn’t_ feel that warm thrill through the middle of his stomach when Potter said something like that. It wasn’t as though they were about to discuss anything really intimate. They were allies on the same side of a war the Ministry had forced them to fight, that was all. And Potter didn’t consider him a friend. And Draco might admire Potter’s cleverness and fighting prowess, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting to protect him the way he did Pansy and Astoria, either.  
  
Potter had different things on his mind. “I think that perhaps an unexpected test in the Lightfinder could provide a stunning effect.”  
  
Draco shook off the thought of the  _effect_ he’d like to provide, and instead merely murmured, “Who could we persuade to step into it?”  
  
“I wonder about one of the Death Eaters the Aurors did capture, the ones who didn’t escape custody as Greyback seems to have done.”  
  
Draco’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I didn’t even realize he had. You realize that could mean someone in the Aurors particularly dislikes you and wouldn’t mind seeing you come to harm?”  
  
Potter began to laugh soundlessly, leaning forwards to bury his head in his arms. Draco poked him sharply. “Stop laughing and tell me what’s funny, arsehole.”  
  
And maybe they weren’t friends, but Draco didn’t know many people who he would have dared to do that to, either. In this case, Potter simply sat up with a hoot and a gasp and mopped at his streaming eyes. “It’s j-just,” he whispered, “the way you said that about someone in the Aurors wishing me harm, so  _seriously_. Of  _course_ I have people in the Ministry hierarchy who wish me harm. Loads of them. All the people who come here and tell me I should be grateful to them for my imprisonment, and all the ones who surround me each time I’m tested for Lethe, for starters.”  
  
Draco scowled. “Fine. But I’m talking about someone who might be on the side of the Death Eaters, not just Dark wizards.”  
  
“I wonder how much difference most of the public sees between them.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes for a second. “Maybe none, maybe a lot, but can we stay on the track of what we were discussing?”  
  
“Of course. Mysterious enemies.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” said Draco, and his hands itched. He realized that he wanted to jump on Potter the way he would have jumped on Blaise or Theo when they were in Slytherin together, and one of Draco’s main ways of working out his frustrations with his friends had been tickling them. He sat on one hand and used the other to brush a casual strand of hair out of his eyes, just so they didn’t get any ideas about wandering off on their own. “ _Listen_ to me, will you. The thought of getting them to test a Death Eater in the Lightfinder. But why?”  
  
Potter at least had calmed down enough to listen, if the silence beside Draco was any indication. Draco let out a short little breath. He had to remember the precise limitations of their alliance, and what might mess it up. Him going too far and treating Potter like his friend was one of those things.  
  
“I could say that I had a vision during the war about one of the Death Eaters,” said Potter slowly. “That they’re particularly Dark and heinous, and they need to be tested. But it would have to be someone we’re fairly sure would actually test red or yellow, and I don’t know how to determine that.”  
  
“Their power,” Draco said. “If they have the power to cast Light spells, it’s fairly certain that they have a Light affinity.” His mind was working on something else. “What do you mean, you had a vision of them during the war?”  
  
Potter didn’t answer. Draco looked over in time to see him wave a dismissive little hand. “I had visions of Voldemort because of the connection through my mind to his, via that soul-piece. I never saw much of anything important.” His jaw hardened. “In fact, my worst visions came during our fifth year. That’s how—well, my godfather died. I did manage to save Mr. Weasley’s life, but that’s the only good thing that really came out of them.”  
  
“Your godfather died because of a vision you had,” Draco said, playing along for the moment in hopes he’d get things explained eventually.  
  
Potter ducked his head for a second and closed his eyes. Then he muttered, “Voldemort sent me a vision of Sirius in trouble to get me to leave Hogwarts. He was really after the prophecy that linked the two of us, and it was easier for him if I went and got it. It was a really stupid time in my life and I was stupid during it, okay?”  
  
“I’m not the one that it sounds as if you need to apologize to,” Draco reminded him, turning neatly to face Potter.  
  
Potter made a sound somewhere between an angry grumble and a laugh and looked up at Draco. “Yeah, well, you’re a substitute.  _He_ isn’t here. Thanks to the stupidity I just told you about.”  
  
At least Draco didn’t want to tickle him this time, but there was the urge to move closer and sit beside him the way he would Astoria or Pansy if they were having trouble. Draco blinked hard and said, “So the piece of  _his_ soul in your head had a profound impact on you.”  
  
Potter shrugged. “Of course it did. I was a living Horcrux. Not one he intended to make, but a Horcrux nonetheless.”  
  
Draco pondered for a moment whether he should really ask the question, but Potter was open and vulnerable at the moment, and Draco wanted to know. “What was it like?”  
  
Potter stared directly at him, then dropped his eyes. “For most of my life, just my life,” he whispered. “It’s not like I knew.”  
  
“Yes, fine,” said Draco, and wondered if he should have started this, but it was rather late to go back now. “But when you knew?”  
  
For a moment, Potter tensed as if he was going to wrench himself off the couch and stride away, which Draco had thought was what he would do when Draco first started questioning him. But then Potter shut his eyes and muttered, “ _Fine_ ,” and then began to recite things in a vague monotone.  
  
“I felt dirty. I felt soiled. I realized why Dumbledore had been so desperate to keep me alive and why he needed me to go around finding the Horcuxes and then find those memories Snape had for me, so that I would accept that the destruction of a Horcrux was worth any price. I walked into the Forest with my heart beating hard because I wanted to live, but at the same time, part of me was relieved I would die, so the filth could go away and I wouldn’t have to have it in my head any longer.”  
  
He paused and turned his head so his dull eyes were fastened on Draco. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Malfoy?” he whispered. “I didn’t know for very long. As soon as I  _did_ know, I had to be on my way again. To go die.”  
  
He stood up, and sighed, and said, “All right. I’ll try to figure out who the most powerful of the captured Death Eaters is and suggest they be put through the Lightfinder. Splinter is so anxious to have me go through Lethe and prove his precious theories right that he might just say we can go ahead and do it, instead of denying me.”  
  
Potter trudged through the doorway into the next room with a funeral pace, and Draco sat there frozen for only a moment before getting up and running after him.  
  
“Potter!”  
  
Draco’s shout was embarrassingly loud. He heard a door open a short distance away, the door of the room Astoria was staying in, but a second later it closed quietly.  
  
Potter paused at the head of the stairs and turned back to look at Draco. “What?” he asked. “You asked a question, and I answered it. And you probably got another answer, too. That was how I knew Voldemort well enough to play him. I was in his bloody head.”  
  
“Listen,” said Draco. “I want you to know that it doesn’t make any difference to me.”  
  
Potter scowled and shifted his weight. “What doesn’t?”  
  
“Whether you were in the—Dark Lord’s head, or had a piece of his soul in you, or had to die to get rid of him.” Draco held his steady stare. “You did what you had to do. And now you’re making sure that some of the rest of us get a chance at a better future. Thank you.”  
  
Potter’s hand curled so hard around the banister that for a second, Draco was sure Potter would reject the attempt at comfort along with everything else. But a second later, he bowed his head in clumsy acknowledgment, and then he turned and walked slowly, with bumping footsteps, down the stairs.  
  
“See?” Pansy said from behind Draco. “Broody.”  
  
“Sometimes it’s justified,” was the only thing Draco could think of to say. 


	17. Aster's Plan

“It’s certainly an intriguing idea,” said Splinter, and gave Harry the kind of smile that Harry knew meant he probably wouldn’t be doing anything because of the idea. “But I’m afraid that we have other things to concentrate on.”  
  
Harry blinked guilelessly at him. “But I don’t understand. If it’s an intriguing idea, then why can’t we do it?”  
  
Splinter sucked in a breath as if he was going to argue or complain, but in the end, he only shook his head and marked off something on the chart in his hands. Harry smiled at him charmingly. They were in a more comfortable room now that Harry had decided to “cooperate” by telling them his Darkness wasn’t his own, it was Voldemort’s. Harry hadn’t seen the bare little rooms where they used to work in days.  
  
He had let a few days go by before he’d asked about the captured Death Eaters. He’d said that surely, they would show the influence of Voldemort when they went through the Lightfinder, too, and that way, Splinter and the rest of them could study the Death Eaters’ auras and compare them with Harry’s. Then they would know more about how Dark Harry was, and more about how to make Lethe work.  
  
“Because we’re too close to finally making Lethe work,” said Splinter, and tried to smile at Harry. Harry beamed back like the witless Light lackey he was trying to act like. Splinter drummed a hand on the seat of his chair for a second. “We need to concentrate on that, not on putting Death Eaters through the Lightfinder.”  
  
“But I don’t understand,” said Harry, and pouted at him. “Of course you can put someone through the Lightfinder. It’s not like it takes that long!” Splinter only looked at him some more as if he was being deliberately obstructionist, and Harry decided that he might as well go ahead and throw in something to sweeten the deal. “You could put me through it again, too. Maybe then you can know whether your efforts are helping me or not.”  
  
Harry reckoned they might as well. It would show them that he was being “helpful,” and if they saw him as Darker, they would think they knew what to attribute that to.  
  
Splinter blinked and straightened. “That’s an idea.”  
  
Harry nodded enthusiastically. “Isn’t it? And that way, we can make sure that I’m not turning into a Death Eater. Like, like them,” he said, and swallowed noisily.  
  
“No, just you,” said Splinter, shaking his head. “Not the Death Eater. Like I said, we don’t have time for that.”  
  
Harry ducked his head and looked up under his eyelashes. “But I don’t understand. Why am I so much more important than they are? Don’t you want to understand them, too, so you can get more data on Dark wizards?”  
  
Splinter hesitated as if agonized. Harry watched him in interest that he hoped was completely hidden behind his blank mask. Splinter acted like this more and more often lately, as if he was deeply interested in the “scientific” way that Lethe and the Lightfinder acted, and held back from exploring them at the same time.  
  
 _Held back from it by who?_  
  
Harry thought that an answer to that question would clarify a lot of things for him, especially whether the Lightfinder was essentially a political ploy or not.  
  
“It’s just not possible,” Splinter said, and then took a step back and adopted an encouraging smile. “Now. Can you hold up your wand and cast the Disarming Charm for me? It’s your signature spell, one that you used to end a war, so it’s significant. Make sure that you perform it nice and loud, and speak the incantation and exaggerate the wand movements a little…”  
  
Harry did it, but absently, his mind on what Splinter had revealed without meaning to. There was absolutely no reason  _not_ to put a Death Eater through the Lightfinder unless someone had told him not to. Which meant Splinter wasn’t as powerful as Harry had assumed he was, and someone had to be in control of him, adapting him to the situation instead of the other way around.  
  
Or else that Splinter was on a deadline of some sort. And that would mean everything he said about wanting to make sure Lethe was safe for Harry was so much bollocks.  
  
Harry, although disappointed at the failure of his plan, settled back and decided he would observe Splinter for a while.  
  
*  
  
“Where’s Potter?”  
  
Draco looked up from his lunch. He hadn’t even realized a portrait frame hung on the wall of the drawing room close enough to the door that someone could see it from the kitchen. He wouldn’t forget, now. He assumed a patient smile and said, “The Ministry.”  
  
“Good,” said Aster, and spent a moment fumbling with something in front of the portrait frame. Draco saw no reason to get up yet, and sat still, watching. No need to tell Aster that he was important, when he most definitely  _wasn’t._  
  
“There,” said Aster. He shook something out. For an instant, Draco thought he had gone into another portrait and retrieved a sheer white shawl, although what he wanted with it, Draco couldn’t imagine. Then Aster shook the thing again, and this time it dangled over the portrait frame and into the room itself.  
  
Draco leaped up and grabbed the thing before it could touch the floor. It was real. It was alive, there, in his hands. Well, all right, not  _alive,_ but it was solid. Draco stared at it in wonder. He had never known something from a portrait could come out of the frame.   
  
“What is this?” he asked, and looked up at Aster. Aster surveyed him critically for a moment, and then nodded.  
  
“Good. I wanted to be sure that you weren’t wearing anything that would conflict with the magic in the shawl,” he added, when Draco stared at him. “And your wand magic appears to be compatible with it as well, or it would have been shredded by now. Excellent.”  
  
“Tell me what it is.” Draco’s voice was low and threatening, and he didn’t think he was even trying that hard. At least it made Aster pause and stare at him, and then nod a little, in an impressed way.  
  
“That show of force will convince others you mean business, when you use it.” Aster leaned back in the portrait. “This is a device similar to the amulet we wasted on Potter. It doesn’t encourage the use of deception, though. Merlin knows you’re already good enough at that, like the way you made me believe that you cared about restoring the honor of Dark wizards and the House of Black.” Draco ignored that bit, too absorbed in testing the sheer web of the shawl with his hands. It floated and spun around him like spiderwebs. “This, though, baffles the eye.”  
  
Draco couldn’t resist saying what he said next, even though he knew it would probably make Aster angry. “So it’s a modified Invisibility Cloak?”  
  
“Those are nothing more than demiguise hair appropriated for a particular purpose,” said Aster, looking disgusted. “Nothing magic about them, except the natural magic of beasts.”  
  
 _Except for Potter’s,_ Draco thought, but this didn’t seem like the time to mention it.   
  
“ _This_ will make those who see you ignore you completely.” Aster nodded to the shawl in a way that Draco thought was meant to make him impressed with it. He was already most impressed with the way it had come through a picture, though. “It doesn’t matter if you make noise, the way it would under a cloak. They won’t look at you or otherwise pay attention to you no matter what.”  
  
“How did you get it through the pictures?” Draco asked.  
  
Aster gave him a smug smile, and said nothing.  
  
Draco sighed and sought a question he thought Aster might answer. “Why did you bring it to me, then?”  
  
“Because I think the Aurors are going to get tired of Potter’s games soon,” said Aster, and he was serious again in a moment. He leaned out until Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to see his head stick beyond the edge of the frame, too. After all, he’d just seen the impossible happen with one object. “They’ll raid the house and take anyone they find here. They might also force Potter to tell them about the secret passages.”  
  
“He wouldn’t,” said Draco at once. That was something he was certain of. And it had nothing to do with the Black blood he and Potter shared, or even the alliance they had built. Potter just wasn’t that way. The heart and center of him, anyway, although Draco knew it was possible Potter thought wistfully about doing something to make Draco shut up.  
  
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what kind of pressure the Ministry can bring to bear.” Aster was silent for a moment, but he didn’t move, and Draco could see the clenching, circling motion his fists made, just under the frame.  
  
“There’s something else,” said Draco. Aster looked at him. Draco sneered. “If you’re so intent on seeing your precious Black legacy survive, then you’ll tell me. I don’t want to leave Potter behind, and I  _definitely_  won’t leave my friends behind.”  
  
“The Unseen can see a great wave coming,” said Aster. “A shattering of some of the strands of power that we’re used to walking. We know that the power arrives, but we can’t see the moment when the wave hits.” He worked his mouth, and then his whole body went motionless, except for his lips. “That means we can’t predict whether anyone we’re trying to help will be safe.”  
  
“And.” Draco made it less than a question.  
  
“Potter is responsible for the wave’s arrival.” Aster gave him a single glance of searing intensity that Draco winced away from. “We don’t know what happens beyond it or at the moment of it, but we know what happens just in front of it. It’s Potter’s fault, and I won’t see you damaged or dead because he can’t control his temper.”  
  
“What happens, then?” Draco demanded. “What can you do that would prevent things from getting to that point?” That seemed, to him, more important than hiding away from it the way the gift of the shawl suggested he should do.  
  
“We know that they take Potter to Lethe,” said Aster, and his mouth thinned this time and he glanced away from Draco as though consulting with an invisible companion. “And to the Lightfinder, first. We don’t know  _why_ , because he’s already been tested. But then there comes a great burst of magic.”  
  
“If he resists and causes that, that’s your fault,” Draco retorted. “He was going to go along and get into Lethe until  _your_ friend told him the price for the amulet was resisting.”  
  
“This is not resistance,” said Aster determinedly. “We do not know  _what_ it is.”  
  
“You don’t know what it is, right,” Draco muttered, a little disgusted. On the one hand, Aster had helped them, and the Unseen had more than helped by giving Potter that amulet. On the other, Aster’s cowardice disgusted Draco.  
  
A second later, Draco froze. Since when was he concerned whether someone thought him a coward? He knew  _Snape_ hadn’t liked being called that, but Draco wasn’t Snape, and he had endured worse insults during the war, and since. Hell, if the Ministry had simply called him that, he would have long since accepted his fate and given thanks for escaping with no worse.  
  
“Potter is influencing you, isn’t he?”  
  
Draco carefully averted his eyes from Aster’s portrait. He didn’t think a portrait could use Legilimency, but Aster had enough knowledge to make him dangerous. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said simply. “Thank you for the gift of the shawl. I’ll be sure to put it to use.”  
  
“We didn’t give it to you so you could go running to Potter’s rescue.” Aster punched the side of the portrait frame, attracting Draco’s unwilling attention. “Listen. The wizarding world will still need someone who knows the truth about Lethe and the Lightfinder even after this explosion. That task will fall to you. Keep the rebellion going. Make sure the Ministry knows the price for caging and exploiting Dark wizards.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “I started this so that I could have a life. Yes, the group of Dark wizards includes me, but I don’t want power. I want a normal life and to be treated as the legal equal of a Light wizard.”  
  
“This is the only way. Dominance.”  
  
“No,” Draco said quietly. “That’s the opposite of equality.”  
  
Aster threw up his hands. “From what you told me of your plight during the war, what you most wished for was safety. Now you intend to give that up for—what? Honor?” His sneer on the last word was the bitterest Draco had ever seen.  
  
“I don’t know,” said Draco, and carefully folded up the shawl. It was so soft that it compressed into a tiny square and landed easily in his pocket. “Thank you for the shawl. I’ll consider what to do with it.”  
  
Aster’s mouth was a thin slash in his face. “You know.”  
  
“I know what you want me to do,” said Draco, and smiled sweetly at his ancestor, although he didn’t know where he dragged the smile up from. “Think about it,  _sir_. Wouldn’t you be disappointed in a Black descendant that went tamely along with what you told them to do?”  
  
Aster turned and strode out of the frame. Draco waited a long moment before he turned back to his interrupted breakfast.  
  
His mind was racing, but he kept a calm face and a steady hand as he consumed the last of his porridge. He had learned such control when several dozen Death Eaters might be watching him torture someone at once, and it was more valuable now, because he stood more chance to affect—save—his own life.  
  
Something great, something that involved a change so all-encompassing that the Unseen, who had been experienced in seeing the future for centuries, couldn’t trace the lines beyond that point.  
  
Draco had to grin then.  _Sounds like Potter._  
  
Potter had complained about the Unseen the other day, saying that he didn’t understand why they hadn’t intervened in the war. Oh, sure, they had an excuse, but it sounded weak to Potter, and to Draco when he explained it. Why were wars that had lasted years and could have destroyed many wizards physically of less significance than fear that had lasted a month and hadn’t yet killed anyone?  
  
The “yet” was important, Draco realized. But he still didn’t want to accept and use Aster’s gifts with blind trust.  
  
In the meantime, there was little he could do, even if Potter’s great and time-changing event was going to happen today. He had to sit back and wait for Potter to get home.  
  
Draco grimaced. Aster hadn’t meant for his gift to be used this way, but Draco had to admit, he was tired of sitting around in Grimmauld Place. He might think of ways to get out of the house and  _act_ —if he could do it without running into Aurors that would immediately arrest him, or abandoning his friends.  
  
Again his gaze fell on the pocket where he had stored the shawl, and again he turned back to his breakfast.  
  
Not today. But soon.  
  
*  
  
“It’s time for you to see Lethe.”  
  
That was all Splinter had said before leading Harry on a dizzying journey through corridors of the Ministry he knew he’d never seen before, although he’d been in and out of the building so many times during the Death Eater trials he’d thought he knew every inch. He emerged into a large room that looked as though someone had hollowed out a lot of the stone that supported the lowest floor of the Ministry.   
  
The stone walls were laced with soft gold tracings glowing with light. Harry blinked and looked again. He couldn’t be sure, since he’d never taken Ancient Runes, but some of those patterns looked as though they could have meaning. He did his best to look at them as long as he could, because they might be able to put the memory in a Pensieve later and use it as a basis for interpretation. Malfoy would know what some of the runes meant, he was sure.  
  
But then Splinter took his hand and shook it, and Harry knew he had delayed long enough. He turned around and stared at Lethe.  
  
It sat on a stone platform in the center of the room. It was a collection of meaningless parts and angles, Harry thought at first. He saw wood in there, and metal, and gems, but his eyes couldn’t make them behave. He also didn’t know where the shimmer of magic around the whole thing came from, or how to place it. He shook his head the way Splinter had shaken his hand a minute ago, and rubbed at his eyes.  
  
When he looked again, it was as if a whole pile of stones had been picked up and reassembled into a statue.  _Now_ he could see. There was a pattern there, a  _procedure_  that linked together the gems and the metal. Now it was a wall of wood, polished wood that looked a lot like cherry, with the gems forming a star-shaped pattern in the center of it. The chains framed the star and draped over it like a shimmering curtain. Harry didn’t understand how someone would go “through” it, the way that Splinter was telling him he would, but he could at least see what it would be.  
  
And the shimmer of magic beamed up through the stone platform beneath Lethe. It was wilder than Harry had thought; sometimes it rippled and flowed in regular shapes that seemed to echo the star on Lethe, but other times it leaped and flickered like static electricity. Harry shuddered as he felt the power pour over his skin.  
  
“See?” Splinter muttered, his voice low as though he didn’t want to wake up something that was sleeping. “Nothing to be afraid of.”  
  
Harry turned and frankly gaped at him. No one could be  _that_ stupid, and frankly, he was a little insulted that Splinter insisted on treating Harry as though he was.  
  
Splinter held Harry’s eyes for one moment, and then looked away quickly. “Well, there isn’t,” he said. “Not once it’s safe.”  
  
“If it’s not safe, why bring me here?” Harry eyed Lethe again. No, there was still no sign of a door or even a place where he could stand while something looked at him the way it had in the Lightfinder. He didn’t want to get near it even so. That power crawling over his skin was  _sluggish,_ like a river of blood he had sometimes seen in his dreams.  
  
“It’s all right!” said Splinter, as violently as though he had tried to shove Harry into Lethe and Harry had begun to struggle right there. “You’ll see. It only needs a few more tests, and then it’s ready.”  
  
Harry grunted without taking his eyes from Lethe. So it was safe.  _Maybe_. He didn’t need the encouragement of the Unseen to resist it, though. He would have resisted if Lethe was the only thing standing on the edge of a cliff between him and a long fall. He turned to face Splinter, and repeated, “If I can’t go into it yet, why bring me here?”  
  
“I wanted you to see it,” said Splinter, and fixed a desperate gaze on him. “To see how intricate it is, how much work we’ve put into it.”  
  
“And?” Harry asked. He tried not to sound aggressive, because that would blow the cover he was trying to maintain at once. He turned around to face Lethe again, but made sure to step backwards at the same time, as if casually. Now he was at least fifteen feet from the thing, and no one was going to make him go nearer. “What of it? I’ve agreed to go in.”  
  
Splinter had his eyes shut when Harry looked at him again. His face was grey and his hands rubbing together.  
  
“I’ve done this much,” Splinter whispered. “The contribution will be immense if I can only make it work the way it should. And yet…there’s still so much to be done.”  
  
“Tell me what it is.” Harry barked the words, then winced. But Splinter was in a strange mood, and there were no Aurors in the room with them. If there was a time that he could get away with challenging Splinter for the information, it was now.  
  
Splinter opened his eyes and gave Harry another odd, pleading glance. “It could do so much good,” he whispered. “But it takes powerful magic to affect the soul, you know.” He hesitated. “Or a ritual.”  
  
Harry nodded, thinking of the rituals Voldemort had had to perform to make the Horcruxes. Harry didn’t know all the details, but what he had grasped was more than foul enough. “Fine, but you still haven’t told me what this has to do with me.”  
  
“So much magic,” said Splinter simply, and gestured at the spiral of uneasy light around Lethe. “The spells you’ve cast in the past few weeks are collected in that. It’s so strong.” He looked longingly at Lethe, then at Harry. “But it’s still not enough.”  
  
“To make Lethe safe?” Harry’s throat was constricted with something that was close enough to panic to make him cough. “Yeah, you told me that.”  
  
“No, to bring it to life. To make it function the way it’s supposed to do.” Splinter raised haunted eyes to his face. “And there’s nothing else I can do to make it work. I’m so sorry, Harry.”  
  
That was all the warning Harry got before something crashed into him from behind, bearing him to the floor, and then tightened on his throat. He thrashed, twisting, trying to get the chain of the amulet in between his skin and what felt like throttling claws.  
  
It didn’t work. His consciousness flickered once, and then went black and red, and faded.


	18. The Cresting Wave

Potter had never been this late before.  
  
Draco checked the clock on the wall, and then the numbers hovering in the air beside him from his casting of the  _Tempus_ Charm. They didn’t change, and he sighed. Of course he  _knew_ that Potter was late. But knowing it instinctively and having numbers that actually told him that were two different things.  
  
And he had to wonder whether the wave Aster had spoken of would break today. If the Unseen knew it, or were keeping the time secret deliberately, or perhaps if Potter’s delay had something to do with this…  
  
Draco stood up and reached into his pocket. The shawl was in his hand in a second, leaping up as if eager to be touched, and then curling and whispering around his fingers. Draco draped it over his head and decided he would test it before he ventured to the Ministry. Aster knew Draco distrusted him. Draco would be a fool not to make sure the shawl worked as advertised.  
  
He walked straight past Astoria, and she didn’t turn and look at him, even though she was alert at the moment. She’d just come from dueling practice with Pansy, Draco thought, if the bruises on her forehead were any indication. Pansy had probably thrown her against the wall again. Draco shook his head. Astoria needed some more confidence in herself. She would win if she cast more powerful spells, and  _convinced_ herself she could cast them. Holding back and being diffident because Pansy had once been her older Housemate did her no good at all.  
  
Draco took the shawl off. Astoria leaped and fired a curse at him before she thought, if the way she immediately shrieked and threw a hand across her mouth was any indication.  
  
Draco blocked the curse with a Shield Charm and grinned at her. “Why don’t you ever cast like that when you duel with Pansy?”  
  
“ _Draco_.” Astoria’s face was scarlet, and she brought her hands to her cheeks and shut her eyes. “Where did you  _come_ from?”  
  
“Something I found in the house that my ancestors used to disguise themselves,” said Draco, which wasn’t so far from the truth as some things he could have said. “I wanted to make sure that it worked like the Invisibility Cloak it’s supposed to be.”  
  
Astoria glared at him. “Well, it does. Are you going to test it on Pansy?”  
  
“I suppose I should,” said Draco. Pansy was more alert than Astoria, because, like Draco, she’d had to run when the Ministry got more interested in her than it should be.  
  
“Then let me watch,” said Astoria, and flashed a sharp grin as Draco draped the shawl over his head again and headed for the room they had chosen for their practice. Draco grinned back, although he didn’t think Astoria could see it since he was already beneath the shawl. Yes, he would enjoy the expression on Pansy’s face when she leaped out of her shoes in turn.  
  
And he would enjoy the expression on Potter’s when Draco came to the rescue.  
  
Because he  _was_ going to find and rescue Potter. And maybe Potter would know better than to frighten Draco in the future.  
  
*  
  
“Do you  _really_ think you had to do that? You’ve ruined several plans and accelerated several others, you know.”  
  
Harry kept his eyes closed and his breathing as regular as he could. Not only did his head ache abominably, those sounded like words he wanted to hear more of.  
  
“I think he suspects something,” Splinter muttered, and then his voice soared in what sounded like agitation. Harry also heard him hitting something made of stone or wood. They probably weren’t in the room where Lethe was kept, then, Harry deduced. There had been nothing made of wood or stone there except the walls and parts of Lethe itself, and he doubted Splinter would want to hit either one of them.  
  
It became harder for Harry to keep his breathing regular when he realized that, out of sheer relief. He didn’t want to be near at Lethe at all if he could help it. It was bad enough that he had been feeding his magic to the thing.  
  
“No, I  _know_ he suspects something,” Splinter was going on feverishly. “He’s been asking me these odd little questions about Lethe and the Lightfinder, and sometimes he  _smiles_ —”  
  
“You’ve risked almost all of our plans for a smile.” The voice sounded disgusted. Harry wished he knew who it belonged to. There was the slightest, teasing edge of familiarity, but they’d had so many different Aurors guard him and duel and serve as the targets of his spells that it was hard to remember them all.  
  
“More than that,” said Splinter. He hesitated for a second, and then his voice was stronger and braver when he spoke again. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I’ve done it, what we would have had to do anyway eventually, and that means we have to move.”  
  
The other voice sighed so deeply it was painful to listen to, and then marching footsteps came towards Harry. “I suppose so.”  
  
Harry had known immediately they’d taken his wand, but he had only one chance when he could really catch them off-guard, and so he wouldn’t waste it. He drew in all his anger and irritation and magic, remembering the moments when he had done this at the Dursleys’, and flung it out of him in a wandless burst of power into the face of the man who was bending over him, as soon as he felt breath on his ear.  
  
His captor screamed in a way that sounded more like the hiss of a great snake, but Harry didn’t recognize any familiar words in it. He was up and flying towards the door, anyway. He willed that to unlock, the way his cupboard had for him right after he blew up Aunt Marge.  
  
But just as the door started to creak open, it slammed back shut. Harry spun around, dodging a Stunner by force of habit as it cracked past him and struck the door.  
  
The figure next to Splinter was wearing a blue cloak and a necklace of small skull-like figures around a central boss. Its face was a swirling mass of clouds and soft light. Harry snarled under his breath. The voice itself hadn’t sounded familiar; what had been familiar was the glamour that must be concealing the face and the real nature of the voice. That amulet looked almost like his, too.  
  
This was another member of the Unseen. And now he had  _proof_ that they weren’t on his side.  
  
“It’s unfortunate we have to meet like this, Mr. Potter,” said the voice. It had a slight feminine tinge, but Harry was convinced now the greatest resemblance was to Oratory’s. The figure moved towards him, one hand on a wand, although Harry thought it was Splinter who had cast the Stunner. “After all, you could have benefited us more if you had remained calm until the moment when Lethe was ready.”  
  
Harry didn’t see any advantage in continuing the conversation. They were going to Stun him and put him into Lethe. He backed up a step, darting his eyes around in large sweeps that let him see what was in the room without ever really looking away from Splinter and the Unseen. It was a stone room with a desk that had a chair behind it, and what looked like a map on the desk surface. No other furniture, though, and no windows. There was little he could do to distract them or get away.  
  
But one thing that might dismay them. Maybe buy a little time.  
  
Splinter was pretty obvious about what he was doing, maybe because he didn’t have Auror training. So Harry saw his wand arm rise the instant he started moving, and ran off to the side instead of staying in place for the Stunner. Splinter yelped and scrabbled to keep up with him. The Unseen simply stood there and watched him.  
  
But its manner changed when Harry reached the desk and scooped up the map. It wasn’t really a map, Harry saw from the glance he could give it, but a thick, cloudy sheet that didn’t feel much like paper, and was covered with figures and equations that might be from Arithmancy calculations. Harry backed up, holding the map in front of him stretched to its utmost limit, like a shield, his fingers on the corners.  
  
“Do something again, and I’ll tear it,” he panted. “I swear I will.”  
  
Splinter sneered and started to say something, but the Unseen reached over and put a hand on his arm. Splinter stood down at once, staring at his feet. Harry nodded fractionally. It was plain who was in charge here, and who he had to impress or evade if he wanted to escape.  
  
He was sure he wanted to escape. Not so sure he wanted to impress them.  
  
“Can this gain you anything, Mr. Potter?” the Unseen asked, and folded his arms over his chest. “Tearing that? It won’t tell you what’s going on, or why this has to happen.”  
  
“You won’t, either,” said Harry, and stretched his hands a little further apart. He heard a sad, fragile tearing sound, and the Unseen lunged towards him. Harry clenched his fingers in the edges of the map, and the Unseen halted, teetering on the edges of his boots.  
  
“Now,” Harry said quietly. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on.” He said nothing yet about letting him walk out the door. He thought the Unseen, with the strange priorities of his weird organization, might even agree to that, but Splinter never would. This had become more about navigating around Splinter than anything else.   
  
“Very well,” said the Unseen. He had come down from wavering on his toes, and regarded Harry with more calmness than Harry had expected. “I know that Oratory attempted to give you part of the explanation. But he didn’t give you enough, or you wouldn’t have started this risky rebellion against the Ministry.”  
  
Harry wanted to ask how they knew any details of that rebellion beyond what Oratory had already told him they knew, but then grimaced.  _Aster. Of course._ So he didn’t look like a fool, he only nodded and raised one eyebrow in inquiry.  
  
“You are at the forefront of a disaster,” said the Unseen. He made as if to shift off to the side, and Harry smiled at him and brought up his knee as though he was going to tear the map across it. The Unseen stopped at once and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. There is a break, a ripple in the patterns. We can’t see what happens. We know only that it happens when you come to the Lightfinder, and after that, to Lethe.”  
  
Harry managed to laugh, as little humorous as he found it. “It sounds like you would have a vested interest in keeping me away from Lethe, then, rather than trying to shove me into it.”  
  
“We would have had the time to make the decision if  _someone_ had not forced the schedule forwards.” The Unseen turned around and glared in Splinter’s direction. Splinter stood with his wand hanging down at his side now, head turned away. But Harry had seen how quickly he could act when he got resentful, so he just waited. “We know that you are involved. We know that you are going to cause some great and powerful disruption in fate. I would ask you not to do it.”  
  
Harry laughed like a crow. “You mean, like the disruption I caused when I killed Voldemort?”  
  
Splinter jumped. The Unseen didn’t flinch at the name in any way. “No. That was predicted, known. The involvement of a prophecy will do that.” He looked at Harry, Harry was sure, despite the lack of ease of making out eyes in that swirling shadow. “This is something we have long foreseen, but only recently did we realize that you were involved. Will you resist the temptation to tamper with fate?”  
  
“I don’t even know what you want me to do,” said Harry, shaking his head. He tensed his hands again when he saw movement off to the right. Splinter was going to get close and Stun him if he could, he knew. However much Splinter knew about the plans of the Unseen, he probably cared more about making Lethe work. “First you wanted me to resist going into Lethe, and now—”  
  
“That was a mistake,” said the Unseen quickly. “Something that should not have happened. We misunderstood the crossing of the strands of fate, and we thought that was the action we needed you to take to prevent the wave waiting to break on us. Now we understand that we need you to go along with things.”  
  
“Go along with having my magic drained? Go along with having some machine I don’t even understand wreak havoc on me?” Harry laughed harshly. “No.”  
  
“Then you might destroy the world, or at least destroy a good portion of our understanding of the world,” said the Unseen, and Harry saw a sign of frustration, the movement of his clenched fists under his sleeves. “It could take us a long time to get the strands back in order and learn the new patterns, and in return, that might mean we can’t predict the next war. Are you really willing to condemn the world to that?”  
  
Harry stared at him flatly. “You didn’t intervene in the last two. What would make me think you’ll do it in another one?”  
  
“Not to intervene,” said the Unseen, shaking his head. “To  _know_. So we can guide the wizarding world back onto the right path after the war has passed.”  
  
Harry laughed again, but it seemed to relax the Unseen instead of make him worry. Well, Harry was going to give him something to  _worry_ about.  
  
“You wanted me to do one thing,” Harry said. “Now you say it’s wrong. You told me that you were experienced in reading the path of the future. Now you say that you misinterpreted the strands of the future, whatever they are. How can I be sure that things will really go back to the way you wanted even if I let myself be a sacrifice?”  
  
“I thought you cared about others,” said the Unseen, and his voice was close to a snarl now. “Instead of thinking only about yourself, selfishly, perhaps you could—”  
  
“I care about myself enough that I know going along with this is the wrong thing to do,” Harry snapped, and ripped the map in half.  
  
The flare of light that burst up from within the clouded parchment burned his hands, and Harry reeled back, flinging the halves of the map on the floor. The Unseen dropped to his knees and scrambled towards the halves, crying out. And Splinter tried to cast another Stunner at Harry.  
  
Harry whirled out of the way and then dashed straight at Splinter this time. Splinter flinched and fumbled his wand, and dropped it on the floor. Harry snatched it up and cast as hard as he could. “ _Stupefy!_ ”  
  
That got Splinter, although not the Unseen. But Harry was a bit busy unlocking the door and Summoning his own wand to worry about that, and all he saw when he glanced over his shoulder was the Unseen crouching over his map and rocking back and forth, anyway.   
  
That left Harry standing in the middle of a corridor he didn’t know anything about, although he supposed he might be near the part of the Ministry where some of the Aurors had brought him to meet Oratory. Something tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around, but it was only his own wand. He grabbed it and stuck Splinter’s wand in his own pocket, where it couldn’t benefit one of the enemy, then started running to the nearest corner. His head still ached, but he knew he needed to get out of here as soon as possible.  
  
The corner showed him another corridor, this one with a few doors, but all of them looked as blank and forbidding as the door of the room he had been kept in. Harry shook his head with a frown and kept running. He would have to hope that something looked familiar around the next corner.  
  
And it did, but not in a way he liked. He seemed to be near the courtroom where he’d been tried for use of underage magic in the summer before his fifth year. There was a gathering of wizards in front of the open courtroom door, speaking to each other in plummy tones. At least one of them wore the robe of a Wizengamot member.  
  
They stared at Harry, who nodded at them and jogged past without slowing down. Whispers broke out from behind him, and his name was in them.   
  
Great. He would have pursuers after him in a second.  
  
No use trying to Apparate, not here. Harry made for the stairs, and began running up them as if Voldemort was at his heels. In a way, he wished it was. He knew how to take down Voldemort. He had no idea what the Unseen really wanted, and no idea if they were going to send someone else after him, like Aurors or Unspeakables or Hit Wizards.  
  
Harry reached the level of the Department of Mysteries, and heard something cackle overhead. He dropped to his knees on instinct, which was the only reason the snatching claws missed him. He rolled over and stared up, and found the thing that hung from the ceiling staring down at him with slightly parted lips.  
  
As much as it could have lips, anyway. It looked like a gargoyle with bat wings, made of heavy stone, and it grated when it fell down in front of him. It stalked slowly towards him, snapping and flexing its long, thin fingers, the hooked claws on the ends looking much longer and sharper than any blade Harry had ever seen up until that point.  
  
Harry backed away in front of it, wondering what sort of spell could affect a stone creature like this. But then he heard the footsteps coming up behind him, and he knew he would be caught between the wizards and the gargoyle in a second.  
  
Anger gave him strength he wouldn’t have had otherwise, and he aimed his wand straight at the floor in front of the creature and snarled, “ _Saltus!_ ”  
  
There was a long shudder, and the floor ripped open. Harry had only seen the spell demonstrated, not used it himself, but it worked the way he wanted it to: the gargoyle fell into the crack and couldn’t get out again. Its wings didn’t seem to actually let it fly, since they beat up and down but couldn’t heave it out.  
  
“There’s Potter. Stop him!”  
  
Harry went on running again, panting as his legs pumped up the stairs. He had to go faster, he knew that, but his head was still ringing from the effect of the blow he’d got from Splinter, and his blood was pounding so hard that he couldn’t hear if anyone was coming up behind him right now or not. He swung around near the top of that last flight of stairs and flattened himself against the wall, which led to at least one person running past him and towards the commotion that must be going on down there.   
  
Harry took to the stairs again. They might try to close them off, but this was still safer than the lifts, and Harry was utterly determined to get to the Atrium and the Floo hearths there. All thoughts of fooling the Ministry with a secret rebellion were gone now. He had to make sure he was free, first.  
  
He slammed straight into a witch who was striding down the stairs when he came up to what he thought was the sixth level. She rocked back, and then straightened up and stared at him. “What are you  _doing_?”  
  
Harry decided in a flash she hadn’t recognized him; sweat had probably plastered his fringe over his scar, which was the only favor it had done him right now, given the way it was running into his eyes. He held a finger to his lips, winked at her, and whispered, “I’m on a secret mission. Department of Mysteries, right?”  
  
“You’re not dressed like an Unspeakable.” The woman eyed him up and down.  
  
“What good would that be, when it’s a  _really_ secret mission?” Harry shook his head in what he hoped she would take for exasperation and tried not to listen too hard to the footsteps from behind him anymore, just concentrating on the task in front of him. The Unseen hadn’t taken their amulet back, and he was sure that was the only reason he was doing so well right now. “Listen. There’s a bunch of people behind me who want to stop the mission. They hate explorers on the bold frontier.” He leaned a hand on her arm and looked into her eyes as hard as he could. “Could you help me delay them? Do you service the cause of justice and truth?”  
  
The woman hesitated for a minute. Harry gave her his best smile. He thought it was working, and not just because of the amulet. This woman looked like someone who wanted to be on the side of justice and truth because she secretly suspected that she wasn’t, very much, when she worked in the Ministry.  
  
But then a sweat-clumped bunch of his fringe swung away from his forehead, and the woman’s eyes locked on his scar and widened.  
  
“You’re a Dark wizard, trying to persuade me,” she whispered. Her wand leaped into her hand. “If you try to move, I’m going to curse you.”  
  
Harry tried to get around her anyway, but this time, she fired a Stunner, and this close in the confines of the stairwell, it couldn’t miss. It glanced off his arm, though, instead of hitting in his chest, and for a second, as he sagged against the wall, Harry thought he could hear the excited, chattering voices.  
  
“Good job, Miss Gower.”  
  
“He was just standing there and talking like anyone else!” The woman, probably Gower, was waving her hands around excitedly. “He almost convinced me. But then I saw his scar and I  _knew_ —”  
  
“They won’t like it—”  
  
“Get him to the Lightfinder. Let them see how Dark he tests  _now_. Come on, let’s move.”  
  
“He’s still awake!”  
  
And then someone hit him with another Stunner, properly applied this time, and Harry dropped into silence and unconsciousness, silently raging at the unfairness of the universe. 


	19. The Breaking Wave

Draco breathed out slowly, the minute he was outside the house. He was sure that the Ministry’s watchdogs might have seen him come out; after all, Aster was working with forces that were part of the Ministry, no matter how hidden or influential they were. It made sense that Aster might have gone back to the Unseen and reported on Draco’s wavering willingness to do as he was told.  
  
But no one had stopped or barked at him, and Draco nodded as he raised his wand to Apparate. He would just go to the Ministry and see what was taking Potter so long.  
  
Someone Apparated in front of him before he could take off, and Draco froze until he saw who it was. Blaise darted his head and his eyes both from side to side, swearing under his breath. Draco reckoned he was looking for a way through the wards, and couldn’t find one.   
  
 _And he might just have revealed that we’re working with him to whoever the Ministry assigns to watch this place,_ Draco thought in annoyance, before he stepped up next to Blaise and grabbed his arm, hard.  
  
Blaise nearly fought against him, but paused when Draco pressed his fingers down in three swift jabs. That was a code they had once used, years ago, when they worked together on spells Vince and Greg were no good at and they didn’t want Theo to know about. They’d set up an alcove in the dungeons with a heavy, locked door and invented the code so the other would know who was knocking if one of them was inside the room.  
  
Blaise muttered something wordless under his breath and Apparated, taking Draco with him. Draco could only hope that the Ministry watchdogs had more important things to do at the moment than immediately start investigating Blaise.  
  
They appeared inside a comfortable cave lit with firelight from the flickering hearth in the corner, and with wooden tables, chairs, and rugs scattered about. Blaise stepped back, and Draco whipped the shawl from his head and looked around. This was probably another hiding place that belonged to Blaise’s mother. At least she didn’t mind Blaise using them.  
  
“What’s that? Did you borrow Potter’s Invisibility Cloak?”  
  
Draco turned around, shaking his head. “Something my ancestors owned.”  _Not even a lie,_ he thought, as Blaise’s eyes narrowed at him, looking for it. “What was urgent enough for you to Apparate to the house?”  
  
Blaise swallowed, and at once turned as grim as Draco had ever seen him, reaching into his pocket as if he was going to take out a photograph or a report or something. He already had his wand gripped in one hand, or Draco would have thought it was that. As it was, Draco backed up one step, body relaxed but ready. If Blaise had betrayed him…  
  
But Blaise looked into his eyes and shook his head. “I was near the Lightfinder, studying it for those weaknesses you told me to research,” he said. “And I saw them putting a body under a blanket in one of those ‘waiting rooms’ that they usually use to hold people they’re getting ready to test.” He took a deep breath. “It was Potter.”  
  
 _No_.  
  
Draco wanted to fly at Blaise for a second, to viciously disagree that Potter would ever have let himself be captured like that, to tell him he was lying. He calmed himself with a little jerk of his head. He was an adult, and Blaise was his friend, and had no reason to lie to him. Just because Draco knew how crucial Potter was to their possible rebellion didn’t mean Potter couldn’t die.  
  
“Alive?” he asked, voice stripped-down, brain humming, ready to act as fast as possible now.  
  
“I couldn’t tell.” Blaise hesitated again, then added, “I did wonder if it was someone in a Potter glamour, that they were going to try to make some point with. I mean, they already tested him once. Why would they do it again?”  
  
Draco moved one hand in an absent way, and Blaise shut up. Draco stared into space and studied the faint carved sigils on the wall in front of him, and closed his fists and released them in regular rhythm.  
  
It  _was_ strange that they would bring Potter to the Lightfinder, but Draco couldn’t take the chance. He turned back to Blaise, who sucked in his breath and nodded as though he knew what Draco was going to say before he asked.  
  
One could never be sure of things like that, though, so Draco asked anyway. “Are you ready to destroy the Lightfinder if you have to?”  
  
“Yes.” Blaise’s voice was soft, but firm. “I would have liked—some more time to research. But that’s only my overcaution speaking. I can do it if I have to.”  
  
“Then get ready,” Draco ordered him. “Or at least act as though you’re going to seriously threaten the thing. Use a glamour and distract them as much as you can. I’m going to go in and get Potter.”  
  
Apart from one glance at the translucent shawl that still dangled from Draco’s hand, Blaise didn’t pause. “All right. Do you want me to actually destroy it? Or should I do that at all?”  
  
“If I can’t get him out of there before they start dragging him towards it,” said Draco grimly. He didn’t know why he was so sure that Potter shouldn’t go into the Lightfinder again. After all, they had done it to him once and he had survived the experience, and the Lightfinder wasn’t the same as Lethe. But he was sure, nevertheless. And Blaise only inclined his head to Draco once, then straightened up.  
  
“All right. When should I show up to threaten it?”  
  
“In ten minutes.” Draco drew his wand. “Where did you say these waiting rooms are? Those little sheds they’ve built behind the stage?” He hadn’t been back to the Lightfinder since he watched Potter being tested on it, but he could look at pictures as well as anyone. The _Prophet_ had published photograph after photograph of the “machine that would save the world,” and most of those had included a procession of little sheds behind the stage.  
  
“Yes.” Blaise hesitated. “You know that he’ll have Aurors guarding him.”  
  
“That’s what I’m counting on your distraction to take care of,” said Draco, and stepped out of the cave and drew the shawl over his head. He vanished in the face of Blaise’s nervous smile.  
  
 _I’m coming, Potter. I promise._  
  
The thought drummed in him. There was a small smidgen of delight that, for once, he would be the one to rescue Potter and pay back one of the thousand debts that it seemed like he owed the git.  
  
But most of it was just sheer determination. Draco had taken a huge gamble and thrown in his lot with Potter when he hadn’t known whether Potter would even welcome them. He had tried to protect his friends, learned secrets about his ancestry, and spent time listening to Potter and trying to understand him.  
  
All of that investment was not going to be  _wasted_ because the Ministry was full of idiots.  
  
*  
  
Once again, Harry came to and tried to keep his eyes closed while he listened for telltale voices around him, but this time, he knew from even a slight movement that escape was going to be pretty much impossible.  
  
He was tangled in some sort of weighted net, thrown down over him and covered with small, tinkling circles that looked as if they were made of obsidian when he glanced at them from under lowered eyelids. And the points of the net were apparently stuck in the stone floor beneath him. There was no way to get out of here quietly, and probably not at all.  
  
Even as he lay there thinking that, Splinter appeared and bent over him. He checked the sides of the net, and then he looked at Harry and shook his head.  
  
“If you hadn’t asked certain questions, all of this could have been avoided,” he hissed.  
  
Harry opened his mouth to speak his mind about that—he reckoned that he might as well, since Splinter was already going to kill him or use him for magical experiments  _anyway—_ but there was a sharp motion outside the door of the room, and a voice Harry didn’t know asked, “Ready, Nick?”  
  
Splinter stepped back with a mask settling on his face. “Yes, sir,” he said, and waved his wand. A spell Harry didn’t know either unstuck the points of the net from the floor, and floated Harry to his feet. Harry found that his head was swimming when that happened and that he felt as if he was going to be sick. He resolved to at least try to be sick on Splinter if he could.  
  
“You brought this on yourself,” Splinter kept muttering as he grabbed Harry’s shoulder and marched him out the door. “You could have engaged in  _any_ sort of investigation that would have been more productive than this, but  _no_. You decided that you had to ask too many questions and demand to see Lethe early, and this is what happened.”  
  
Harry bared his teeth, waited until they were out of the little shed and he could clearly see the Lightfinder, and kicked Splinter in the leg.   
  
Splinter fell with a yell and a crash. Harry spun to the side, trying to shed the net. It was tangled around his arms, but surely—  
  
“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” said a voice that Harry knew  _too_ well, and Harry fell to the ground beside Splinter. He strained his muscles against the spell as hard as he could, trying to call up enough will to at least get a hand free, and then Kingsley bent down in front of him and gently removed the net from his face.  
  
Kingsley’s eyes were so grieved that Harry found it hard to look at them. But he didn’t have much choice given the spell, and he reminded himself that Kingsley was the one who had made the stupid choices, anyway. He stared back until Kingsley shook his head and murmured, “If you had told us the truth about the Dark tempting you, Harry, we would have given you help and shelter a long time ago.”  
  
Harry couldn’t answer anyway. He thought Kingsley ought to be grateful for that.  
  
Kingsley sighed and went on, though, and Harry had other things to think about. “Nick was the one who first began to hint to me that something wasn’t right, that even being possessed by You-Know-Who couldn’t fully explain some of your actions. Either that, or the soul shard had taken over. And if you had only come to us when you first began to feel the press of the temptation…”  
  
Kingsley shook his head and stood back. “Well, that’s over now,” he said, and floated Harry into the air and towards the Lightfinder.  
  
Harry could hear the murmur of what sounded like a fairly large crowd. He wondered with detached rage if the Ministry had collected them to witness the trial of someone famous or if they were the people who always seemed to stand about here, waiting for someone else to be condemned as Dark or celebrated as Light. When Kingsley floated him up to the top of the stage and someone gasped, Harry thought it was probably the latter.  
  
 _And this is a useless thing to think about._  
  
 _I might as well think about it, though,_ Harry argued back against himself.  _Since nothing else is going to happen that I can participate in._  Then he dismissed the whole mental argument with himself and turned back to Kingsley’s speech.  
  
“It makes me sorrow,” Kingsley was telling the crowed earnestly, “when I think of how we depended on one teenager to fight our war for us. In doing so, we exposed him to temptations that wizards twice his age would have had trouble handling.” Kingsley gave that exasperating sigh again. “It is my belief that Harry Potter must have been using Dark Arts for years, trying to train for the upcoming battles with You-Know-Who, and only saved the world at the cost of his soul.”  
  
Something moved off to the side. Harry tried instinctively to turn his eyes in that direction, and of course he couldn’t. But he knew he had seen something, some flickering dart of motion.  
  
 _Not like it would be something that would save me, anyway,_ Harry thought grimly, and paid attention to Kingsley’s speech again. Maybe he could find something to twist there to his advantage, as unlikely as that would be.  
  
“…and so it is the wizarding world’s fault that Mr. Potter is the way he is,” Kingsley concluded grimly. There were plenty of skeptical looks in the crowd, Harry saw. Kingsley either didn’t care about that, or thought he could convince them otherwise. “It is only right that the wizarding world help him heal.”  
  
That got a few scattered, confused outbursts of applause. Kingsley turned Harry back towards the Lightfinder, still using the spell that helped him float above the stage. “Now,” he said, over his shoulder, “we will put him in the Lightfinder and see how Dark his aura has got and how much healing we need to do.”  
  
Harry wanted to grit his teeth. He couldn’t even do that. He thought of Lethe, and wanted to scream. He couldn’t do that, either.  
  
 _Now’s the time that I almost want Death Eaters to burst into the crowd and try something mental to rescue what they think is the last shard of Voldemort,_ he thought, despairing, as the Aurors dragged him towards the Lightfinder.  
  
And then something  _did_ happen. Not Death Eaters, though. There was a shuddering, cracking sound, and the Lightfinder’s stage suddenly sagged to the side. Harry was the only one who kept upright for a moment, supported by magic, while the rest of the Aurors tumbled around and only caught their balance by scrambling and flailing.  
  
Kingsley was standing near one end of the stage, his wand drawn. The crowd was shrieking. Harry tried again, instinctively, to look around, and found himself more furious than ever when he couldn’t.  
  
There came that flicker of motion again, and then a figure leaped onto the stage. For a moment, Harry thought it was one of the Unseen, because the face was most definitely a glamour. But it was a face, not the same swirl of clouds and color that masked most of the Unseen. It was big and puffy and leering, like a caricature of a goblin, and Harry hadn’t any idea who it could be.  
  
“Have  _at_ you, Light Eaters!” yelled the figure, and then turned and began throwing things at the Lightfinder. Harry saw the intense blue gleam of them, and for a moment wondered if the madman was throwing sapphires. Well, why not? It made as much sense as anything else happening around him at the moment.  
  
But the “sapphires” stuck the Lightfinder and burst into glowing blue orbs of flame. They clung to the mirror and the stone that the person being tested by the Lightfinder had to put their hands on, and then they—  
  
 _Exploded_ was too mild a word for it, Harry thought as he flung his arm over his eyes. Because, suddenly, the spell on him was gone, and he could do that. He had a moment’s realization that Kingsley had probably pulled all his magic back into his core at once to deal with this new threat, and that had ended the spell.  
  
Then the wave of silent light and force boiled across the stage, and grabbed him so hard that Harry went flying off his feet. He was already wrapping his arms around his head as he tumbled through the air, trying to make the landing as soft as possible. Not Auror training, that, but sheer experience with Death Eaters and Dudley’s gang.   
  
 _Never thought I’d be grateful to Dudders for beating me up,_ he thought, half-hysterical, and then he hit jarringly against a wall. From the pain, he’d probably cracked a rib. Harry rolled on the ground and scrambled to his feet, desperate to stand up and see what the hell was happening.  
  
Arms grabbed him around the waist, and Malfoy’s unexpectedly harsh voice said into his ear, “Stop struggling, you idiot! I’m the one who’s got you.  _And_ your wand.” Something hard slipped into Harry’s back pocket. “I took it from one of the Aurors when he was a little distracted.”  
  
“You were the one who did this?” Harry asked, in a tone it was impossible to prevent from being dazed and impressed, as he stared at the remains of the stage. It hadn’t actually exploded, the way he’d thought. There was still the blue-burning wreckage of the Lightfinder, and the stage intact beneath it, except for the tilt induced by the attacker’s first spell, whatever it was. But the flames had formed into hard little spheres around the stone and mirror and altar of the Lightfinder, and people in the crowd were screaming with terror.  
  
“Arranged for it,” said Malfoy, and began to push him rapidly across the square towards the side where the crowd was thinnest. “And in the meantime, we should take advantage of this and get out of here.  _Now_ ,” he added, when Harry hesitated and turned back towards the Ministry. “And I told you, I already have your wand.”  
  
“Lethe has been stealing my magic,” said Harry. He had a flickering moment when he wondered if he should be confessing that sort of thing to Malfoy, who once would have used it against him or at least despised Harry for his weakness, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe either would happen now. “They’ve been collecting it. All those spells that they had me cast, that we couldn’t figure out the purpose of? That was what they were for.”  
  
Malfoy stared at him. Harry could feel that without turning his head. Then Malfoy put an invisible hand on his arm and murmured, “Come on. There isn’t a thing we can do about it. We’ll have to go away and come back and try—”  
  
“No,” said Harry, and gave Malfoy a piercing enough look that he recoiled a little and raised his hands as though he was going to prevent Harry from driving the gaze through his body. Harry could only see that because of the shadow where his hand emerged from the Invisibility Cloak—it had to be the Cloak he’d borrowed—but it was enough. “I need to go back there now. I want to reclaim my magic.”  
  
“If they’re holding it in some kind of artifact, then I don’t know how you can,” said Malfoy, his voice snarling, and grabbed Harry’s arm again. “Come  _on_. We have to get away and run. We’ve revealed that you’re not going to go along tamely with them anymore.”  
  
“Then it can’t matter whether we linger one more moment or not,” Harry argued, and grabbed Malfoy and Apparated. He landed in front of the Ministry’s entrance, and marched towards it.  
  
“At least  _hide_ ,” said Malfoy, and then there was a motion of what felt like silk, and Harry found himself walking under an invisible thing that was most definitely not his Cloak. Malfoy, fully visible again to him here, gave him an exasperated look.  
  
“None of the Ministry’s spells can detect this thing,” Malfoy added. “But they’ll be able to detect what you do to Lethe. So don’t push it.”  
  
“Where did you get it?” Harry tilted his head back to admire the weave of the cloth, just visible from underneath.  
  
“Aster brought it through a portrait.” Malfoy shrugged when Harry stared at him. “I don’t know how he did it, either. But his idea was that I could use it to hide from the Ministry when you staged a rebellion against them and lost.” He paused, then added, “I find myself tired of what Aster hides from us, and what the Unseen do.”  
  
“Considering there was one of the Unseen there when I woke up, and I only got away by tearing up a map, I agree,” said Harry, as they ducked into a corridor that no one else seemed to be inhabiting at the moment. Malfoy still tugged down the shawl closer over his head and Harry’s and motioned for silence as they made for the stairs that would take them to the bottom of the Ministry.  
  
“A map? What kind of map was it?” Malfoy had his head cocked, his eyes narrow in a way that made Harry think his brain was probably pouncing and leaping all over the information.  
  
“I couldn’t make any sense of it. Random patterns. Maybe some of the same kind of thing they use to read the future.” Harry shrugged and opened the door at the top of the stairs, but did pause to look at Malfoy. “Thanks for—doing what you did. You don’t have to be here for this part, you know. It might be better if you went back to Number Twelve and got Parkinson and Astoria ready to move, anyway.”  
  
Malfoy’s face didn’t shift, but his hand came up and squeezed Harry’s shoulder until Harry grunted with the pain.  
  
“Down the steps,” said Malfoy softly. Harry obeyed, and tried to pretend that his heart wasn’t hammering and his mouth wasn’t wide in a grin.  
  
*  
  
Draco pressed his back against the wall when he saw Lethe. The magic eddying and swaying around it was familiar enough that he thought he would have known it as Potter’s even if he hadn’t been told it was. And the runes in the walls were powerful enough protections that he thought there was no way Potter could take the magic back.  
  
“Potter,” he whispered.  
  
Potter stalked towards Lethe, not looking at him. His wand rested lightly in his hand, and Draco grimaced. He knew that expression. He had seen it on Lucius’s face before, and his mother’s, and Bellatrix’s. And Fenrir Greyback’s, come to that.   
  
They were going to do what they wanted no matter what Draco said. So Draco leaned back and watched. He knew Potter’s actions would probably bring the guards they had evaded running in seconds, but for right now, it did seem as if most of the people, like the Unseen, who might have been down here were involved in the crisis unfolding around the Lightfinder.  
  
Potter panted in front of Lethe for so long that Draco began to wonder if he had changed his mind after all. And then he raised his wand arm and brought it down in a single slashing motion, combining it with a spell that definitely did  _not_ have that wand movement.  
  
“ _Accio_ magic.”  
  
There was a trembling mist rising around Lethe, and it was a color Draco had never seen before, a color he didn’t own a name for. He opened his mouth, ready to protest, and Potter repeated the motion with the wand.   
  
The magic that clung around Lethe swayed towards Potter like a tree bending in the wind. Then it reversed itself, and then Potter spoke the Summoning Charm again.  
  
And light, brighter than the fire Blaise had used to consume the Lightfinder, filled the room, and Draco heard a noise like chains ripping, and something seemed to suck his consciousness away from him as though  _it_ and not Potter’s magic had gone flying in response to a Summoning Charm.  
  
The last thing he heard, oddly, was Potter laughing.


	20. A Formless Ocean

Harry knew that, one moment, he had been standing in front of Lethe. The magic that surged around him was his own, but it felt distant and soft, not connected to him at all. He had Summoned it out of pure frustration, not able to stand the disjointed feeling for another instant. It had touched him, and for one moment, he had laughed in delight.  
  
Now he knew that he was in the middle of a dark grey, formless spiral of softness. He could feel the magic flowing into him, but also flowing  _out_ of him. Harry gritted his teeth. It was as if he had merely put himself into the middle of the cloud drifting around Lethe instead of destroying it.  
  
He tried to lift his wand and speak another spell, but he felt nothing. No wand between his fingers. When he looked down, he saw that was for the excellent reason that he didn’t have fingers anymore. Come to think of it, he couldn’t really feel or hear his teeth grinding against each other, either.  
  
Harry tried to scream. No voice came out of his throat, since his throat didn’t seem to exist anymore.  
  
His thoughts flickered and danced, reaching wildly around him. He had Summoned the magic; had he destroyed himself when he did that? Or destroyed Lethe? What about Malfoy? Had he survived? Or his friends outside the Ministry? Harry didn’t know what he had done, and that was worse than the thought that he might have exiled some of his magic outside his body forever.  
  
He turned, or tried to imagine himself turning. It was probably the same thing here. And he didn’t really expect to see anything behind himself except more formlessness, and that would mean he would go mad.  
  
But to his astonishment, there  _was_ something solid there, a dark wooden door that loomed out of what Harry supposed could be a floor while the grey swirled all around it. Harry swam in its direction. As soon as he came near, there was suddenly weight, and he could see and feel the hand that reached out and clutched the edge of the door.  
  
Harry wanted to close his eyes and weep for relief. But he was a little busy, still. He wrenched at the door, and it trembled, but didn’t open. He tried to crane his head around it and see if there was anything except grey on the other side, but the instant he did that, he started to cease to exist again. The fingers that he extended into space melted back into fog and mist. Harry shuddered and tightened his grip on the door.  
  
He finally realized what it reminded him of. The door that led into Lethe, the wooden one that covered the front of the machine.  
  
And that let him know what he had done. He had somehow put himself inside Lethe.   
  
But the machine wasn’t finished yet, and probably couldn’t do anything to him. Harry told himself that to calm his pounding heart—the only bad consequence about being so close to a door that made him exist was the surge of emotions he got as a result—and tucked his legs close to his chest, floating towards the door.  
  
When he landed right in front of it, he could see that it  _was_ shut. And blowing through the edges of it, through the crack under the door, was a fresh breeze that made Harry want to cry again. There was also a glimpse of normal light.  
  
If he could force the door open, then he should be able to get through it and back into the real world.  
  
Harry closed his eyes to think. He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He couldn’t use magic, or at least his wand hadn’t come back with the rest of him, and he doubted he could use pure strength when parts of his body didn’t exist at any given time. With how strange Lethe was inside, it might not be open to either method like that, anyway.  
  
But he had got himself into this situation by wanting something so fiercely that probably more magic than there should be had got dragged into him. Or it had pulled him here.  
  
And that meant…  
  
He called up his will as much as he could, a weapon that he smashed like a whip against the door of Lethe, and felt the world around him tremble.  
  
The grey fog stopped. Harry had hardly noticed the small motion running through it before, like a stream flowing under the surface, but it steadied, stabilized now, and there was no more motion. And then the motion turned and oriented on him, and began to run towards him and the door.  
  
Harry gritted his teeth, which existed again, and clung to the door. Nothing was going to knock him away from it, and if he had to endure the pounding from the ocean, then that was what he would do. For once, his stubbornness was going to serve and protect him instead of simply get him into further trouble.  
  
The force of the current hit him, and Harry had to clamp his teeth down to keep from screaming aloud, it was that painful. But then the force tore past him, and through the gap under and around the door, and the door creaked and groaned and began to swing back.  
  
Harry let go with one hand, stuck his other one into the gap, and then thrust himself forwards as fast as he could.  
  
There was a complicated, sickening second when he was tumbling through space that existed and didn’t exist at the same time, when his head swam and there was a suffocating sense of magic imploding into his head, exploding out his ears, and propelling the soles of his feet all at once. Harry screamed again, both because it would give him strength and because he might as well, and tore at the sides of Lethe.  
  
It worked. Or part of the desperate combination he’d been trying to pull off worked; he didn’t really know which one. A second later, he was sprawled on the floor of the room in the bowels of the Ministry where they kept Lethe, panting and bending his head down so that his chin rested on his hands.  
  
“Potter?”  
  
Malfoy’s voice was sharp, as if he hadn’t expected to see Harry again. Harry couldn’t blame him, he thought as he rolled over. He hadn’t expected to get out of that formless grey ocean and back into the real world again, not really.  
  
Malfoy was standing over him, staring down with an intensity that would have made Harry squirm if he hadn’t got distracted. The distraction was the bleeding scratch on the side of Malfoy’s face. Harry made some incoherent sound and reached up, and Malfoy reached up, too, smearing the blood with his fingers and then looking at it as if bewildered.  
  
“I got that when you slammed me into the wall,” he said.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and began to struggle to his feet. His chest ached as if he’d been breathing cold air for hours, and maybe he had. But his wand was in his hand in a second, Malfoy giving it to him, and Harry sighed and nodded. “Sorry. That was what happened when I cast the Summoning Charm?”  
  
“Something like that.” Malfoy reached out and hauled him the rest of the way to his feet with an easy hand. Harry turned around and looked at Lethe, vaguely aware that Malfoy had continued to clutch his arm.   
  
Lethe was—leaning. The wooden door that had been the center of it from the other side was gaping wide, although in the real world, all it showed was the wall on the other side, instead of the grey ocean. The chains were snapped and lying on the platform. Harry looked around and realized the runes on the walls, the ones he hadn’t really understood, were no longer glowing.  
  
“You broke it,” said Malfoy dryly. “Congratulations.”  
  
“I wanted to break it,” Harry said, staring at it. “I wanted to at one point. But I didn’t think I would manage.”  
  
“Well done, then.” Malfoy’s hand was heavy on his shoulder the way it had been on his arm, and Harry shook his head a little and let Malfoy pull him along, away from Lethe and towards the exit from the room. “We’ve only got a little time before they come to find out why their alarms are going crazy, you realize.”  
  
“Have we destroyed both Lethe and the Lightfinder in the same day?” Harry did pause once in the doorway to look back at Lethe, but Malfoy grabbed at his arm and hauled him along again. The door shut behind them, and they started running up towards the stairs that Harry knew would lead them out of here. It didn’t feel like the same wondrous floating sensation that had filled his head when he came down this way. It felt like the ache of pain in his chest, the pain that came from bursting through Lethe’s door and from seeing what he’d accidentally done to Malfoy.  
  
“Don’t know about the Lightfinder,” said Malfoy, and his hand was still tugging Harry relentlessly along, even though Harry had long since started running under his own power. Harry thought about planting his feet just to see what would happen, but he knew Malfoy would resent him for that, and rightly. The least he could do was be a good sport now. “But Lethe looks pretty dead.”  
  
Harry would have answered, but then they came around a corner and saw two Unspeakables in front of them. Or, Harry thought as they turned cloudy, swirling masses of light towards him and Malfoy instead of faces, Unseen.  
  
Harry might have hesitated, but Malfoy, running on fear or bravery or something else, lowered his shoulder and bowled straight forwards. The Unseen had their mouths open, or slits in the light and shadows that might have been mouths, but Malfoy obviously wasn’t about to wait until he found out whether they wanted to cast. He simply crashed into them and bore them to the floor, and the Unseen he hadn’t hit as hard stopped struggling to get up when Harry planted his wand at its throat.  
  
“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy said, dancing up and down in the corridor beyond where the Unseen lay. Harry bit his tongue on the impulse to say that Malfoy looked a little kid who needed to use the loo—both untrue and unfair—and leaped over the Unseen and ran after him.  
  
It was like the flight he had tried to take out of the Ministry after he’d woken from Splinter’s blow, in so many ways, but this time, Harry had more hope. And all his hope was centered in the companion running beside him, the companion who had dared to come with him into danger, and whom he had already failed, in one way, by hurting when he Summoned the magic.  
  
 _I’m not going to fail him again. He’s already been braver than any other Slytherin or Dark wizard I know._  
  
They clattered up the stairs towards freedom, and Harry made sure that he was beside Malfoy all the way. Trying to stay behind was impossible for his own courage and his sense of the fitness of things, trying to step in front of Malfoy would irritate him, but this—this was where he belonged.  
  
*  
  
Draco was astounded they had actually  _made_ it. He supposed they would have had a much harder time, but for the fact that all the Aurors and Unspeakables who should have been guarding the Ministry would have run to the site of the Lightfinder. The Minister was there, after all, and so was the source of what they would see as a threat.  
  
He only hoped that Blaise had got away.  
  
He and Potter slipped out of the Ministry, and Potter stood there a second as if he wanted to breathe bloody clean air or something. Draco squeezed on his arm, which had had a good effect so far. They had to Apparate out of here and get back to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible, preparing to hide and run.  
  
“We’re  _going_ ,” said Draco sharply, when he tugged again and Potter just stood there. Draco was prepared to Side-Along Apparate Potter if he had to, but he would really rather that Potter do it. Draco’s head ached abominably and he was afraid of getting the Apparition coordinates wrong if he had to do it himself.  
  
“It’s too late now,” Potter said, almost conversationally.  
  
Draco stared at him, wondering if Potter had gone mad, or despairing  _now_ , when they had got cleanly out. Then he followed Potter’s gaze.  
  
He had thought he would see an army of Aurors marching towards them, or maybe that plus the Minister. Instead, he saw a clutch of Death Eaters, Greyback and undoubtedly two or three of the others who had knelt to Potter in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, staring at them and holding their masks in their hands.  
  
“Follow my lead,” said Potter to him, and Draco barely had time to nod before Potter was turning and boldly walking up to the Death Eaters.  
  
“My loyal followers.” It was the same cold, distant voice Potter had adopted with the Death Eaters before, and it seemed to work as well as before, to Draco’s relief. Greyback bowed; the others knelt. “You have come for the raid on the Department of Mysteries that I commanded?” For a moment, his gaze swept across them.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” said Greyback. “When they took your shell up to the Lightfinder, we thought, all at once, like, we should get on with it…”  
  
Potter nodded, so absently that Draco was impressed. Of course, he knew the amulet around Potter’s neck was adding to the deception, but it was one thing to lie with words and another with the very slant of your neck. Draco hadn’t thought Potter had that arrogance in him.  
  
 _No, wait. I used to think he did._  
  
Draco was still wrestling with the idea that he had changed his mind thoroughly about Potter’s need for a thrashing when Potter said, “And in the meantime, you will abort that mission and  _take us with you_.” His voice was as sharp as a whip, and the ones kneeling gaped at him. Greyback, on the other hand, cowered back.  
  
“My Lord…it’s not…we don’t have…”  
  
Greyback’s voice fell away in the face of Potter’s withering stare. That was almost all Potter, Draco judged, without the amulet helping him a lot.  
  
“Did you think to fool me?” Potter hissed at him, and his words were edged with real Parseltongue. It took everything Draco had, all the courage he could summon, to make him walk up and stand at Potter’s side like he belonged there, and he didn’t know how well he was succeeding in looking bored and obedient, the way he wanted to look. “Did you think that I would believe you had run around by yourself and yet kept away from the sight of the Ministry,  _Greyback_? I know someone stands behind you. I have a good notion of who.”  
  
There was a smoldering silence, while Draco looked straight at the bridge of Greyback’s nose and tried to conceal the fact that  _he_  at least had no idea. Maybe Potter didn’t, either. But he could play it off well.  
  
“All right,” said Greyback, with what was almost a whimper. “Someone’s helping! Someone’s leading! But we haven’t listened to him as much since we found you, my Lord, I  _swear_. We would listen to the real ruddy Dark Lord, always!” He dropped to his knees now, too, and looked up at Potter in pleading.  
  
Draco took a single glance sideways himself, and immediately shuddered. It was wrong for Potter’s green eyes to look that glazed and cold.  
  
It was probably saving their lives right now, he reminded himself. But it was still wrong.  
  
“Of course you will obey me,” Potter drawled a second later, sounding almost uninterested. He reached out and patted Greyback on the head. Greyback flinched and cowered, whimpered as though the pat had been a blow.  
  
Draco stood there dazed and wondering. He knew that the amulet was coming up with these lies, or at least it was letting the Death Eaters believe the lies when they heard them, and arguably Draco and Pansy were the ones who had led Potter to pretend he was the Dark Lord in the first place, but he was silently awed at the courage Potter had to pat a dangerous werewolf on the head and get away with it. That was nothing but sheer Potter.  
  
“Of course, my lord,” Greyback whispered. “Of course.”  
  
Potter turned around and looked with those glazed eyes at Draco. Draco stood up and tried to look as pleased and obedient and robotic as he could.  
  
“You are to go with Malfoy to bring out our other faithful followers,” Potter said, and pointed at a blond Death Eater Draco was sure he didn’t know. “You will  _not_ betray them. If you do…” Potter hissed abruptly, and moved his wand. A shadowy serpent arose from beside Draco’s feet—he really couldn’t tell if Potter had cast an illusion or  _Serpensortia_ —and entwined around the Death Eater’s ankles. The Death Eater stood still, with the look of someone who remembered the Dark Lord’s Nagini on his face.  
  
“You will bring them,” said Potter. “To the same place that our  _most_ faithful followers, no doubt, await.” He gave a glance at Greyback that was thick with meaning, and made the stupid werewolf bob his head and whine like a puppy. “And soon.”  
  
The blond nodded and waited, almost holding his breath, it sounded like, until Potter dissipated the shadowy snake. Then he moved up beside Draco and tried to say something with papery lips. Draco didn’t bother listening. He knew the sort of babble it would be.  
  
He watched Potter’s back, willing him to turn around. He didn’t like this idea of separating, even if it was only for a while, and inevitable, because the Ministry would search Grimmauld Place.  
  
Potter did turn, but he maintained that same cold, blank look in his eyes, and the gaze he gave Draco wouldn’t have done justice to a stranger. He held Draco’s look briefly, then jerked his head.  
  
“Bring anything from your ancestors’ house that might be useful,  _little_ Malfoy,” he said, and turned and walked towards Greyback.  
  
Draco held his breath for a moment, so he wouldn’t scream, and then nodded. He had no other choice. That had been true from the moment he ran away from the Aurors in Astoria’s house.  
  
It was just, this was a particularly horrible kind of not having a choice, and one he hoped he’d left behind him with the Dark Lord’s fall.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” he said, and if Potter felt the bite in those words, he didn’t turn. He just kept walking, and Draco turned to Apparate with the Death Eater in tow, swallowing again and again, and trying to decide if he wanted to bring one of Aster’s portraits with them or not.  
  
*  
  
Harry wasn’t surprised when they appeared in front of a large pair of iron gates. It made sense that the Death Eaters would have some Unplottable pure-blood house somewhere. If they were hiding out in the wilderness, the Aurors would probably have caught them by now, with the massive hunt. And imagining them in the Muggle world was laughable.  
  
Harry had a suspicion. He had tried to convey that suspicion to Malfoy with his words, but he doubted Malfoy had caught it. He’d looked as if he was trying to deal with being smacked in the face.  
  
Harry was sorry for that, but, well, he had work to do. He waited in silent disdain—that was one emotion he didn’t have to pretend to feel, around Death Eaters—until Greyback leaned forwards and showed his Dark Mark to the gates, and they swung open.  
  
They walked up a path that seemed to be made of crushed marble, or something. Harry only knew that the rock was soft and crumbly under his feet, and it was also softly white. He tried to walk as straight-backed as he could, imagining how disgusted Voldemort would have been with everything around him.  
  
It also helped that Harry felt his own disgust, and never more so than when they swung around a bend in the path and saw the actual house. It was a large one, but apparently only had one floor, so that it sprawled across its land in a welter of grey stone streaked with white. Harry stared at it and thought of all the wealth in it, the kind of wealth that the Death Eaters would put to work supporting killing Muggles and torturing people for no reason.  
  
He had been in dangerous situations before, and survived them. Even horrible situations before, and survived them. So he kept walking, and kept the same look or lack of it on his face, and Greyback scurried ahead of him and opened the door with a bow, like a house-elf.  
  
Harry had to sneer so as not to think of Dobby.  
  
They moved into a wide corridor, and several other Death Eaters surrounded them, staring. Harry’s little escort started to explain what was going on. Harry looked around as if calculating the exact width of the windows he wanted to shed light upon his royal presence and pretended to ignore the conversation, while listening as hard as he could.  
  
“… _really_ has the shard of the Dark Lord in his soul,” Greyback was saying, with a little strut that Harry thought came from being able to tell the stay-at-homes something they didn’t know. “And there’s no doubt that  _he’s_ in control now.”  
  
“Why?” demanded a woman with a thin, unpleasant face. Harry thought he had sometimes seen her through his visions during the war, but he didn’t know her name. She had stood behind Malfoy and prodded him on to greater tortures, though, which meant Harry already disliked her.  
  
“Because he can speak to snakes,” Greyback said.  
  
He didn’t need to lower his voice impressively, but he did anyway. And that made more people than ever look at Harry. He stood taller and narrowed his eyes and hissed a little, for effect, enjoying the way they swayed back from him.  
  
Then he nodded and said, “Which of my faithful followers has been employing you for me? Was it—”  
  
“Me, my Lord,” said the smooth voice from behind him. “Had I suspected you still survived, I should have hastened to your side, joyously.”  
  
Harry turned around and watched the tall man coming around the corner, who knelt to him. Harry’s heart slammed a little against his ribcage. His suspicions had been confirmed.  
  
“Ah, Lucius,” he said, and reached out, putting his hand on Lucius’s brow in a gesture which he was free to call blessing if he wanted. “Old friend.”


	21. Dancing Among Shadows

The blond Death Eater was no more pleased than Draco about being sent on this mission, Draco thought as they moved towards the back of Grimmauld Place. Unlike Draco, though, at least he wasn't a prey to the horrendous confusion of seeing Harry Potter pretend to be the Dark Lord.  
  
Draco gripped his wand. He _had_ to make that confusion a point of strength instead of weakness, and he pasted a smirk on his face and turned around to slightly bar the door into the house. The Death Eater halted at once and gripped his own wand. He was thick-bodied, Draco judged, but not fat. That could make him a dangerous opponent in a duel, since he could slam someone else to the ground and still move fast.  
  
_Slam someone else to the ground._ Like a person who was small and lithe and _still_ not up on all the finer points of dueling that he should be.  
  
"When we go into the house," Draco breathed out, "be careful what you say. The house-elf who lives here is loyal to the person he _thinks_ our lord is. Potter." He managed to spit the name with convincing force, he thought. After all, he hadn't yet forgiven Potter for putting him in this impossible position. "He won't hesitate to attack if he thinks that you're trying to steal from his 'rightful owner.'"  
  
The blond sneered and lifted his head as though he wanted to remind Draco he was taller than him. Since Draco was on the back step, though, the gesture was wasted. Maybe the man realized that, because his voice was even more sullen as he muttered, "So how are _you_ going to get away with it, then?"  
  
"Because my mother was a Black," Draco said, clearly, then turned and walked into the house. His back prickled with the wait for the blond to cast a curse at him.   
  
But he didn't. He only came behind Draco, grumbling all the way.   
  
Draco stepped into the kitchen, and found himself immensely glad that neither Pansy nor Astoria were there. But Kreacher was, and he turned around from the sink with his hands wide and his mouth opening even wider in outrage.  
  
Draco caught his eye and said, "The true owner of this house has recommended that I bring important Black artifacts with me. As well as valuables that can help us pursue the true cause of revolution." At least Kreacher knew they had been planning to strike back at the Ministry, although Draco had no way of knowing what he thought about it.  
  
Kreacher's lips tucked in, and he said, "Then masters should be coming this way." He marched into the drawing room, his hands waving as hidden panels in the walls flew open.  
  
Draco followed him, trying to look as calm as he could, even though he hadn't known most of these panels were here. He wondered if Potter had. He wondered what Kreacher was thinking, revealing such sensitive or potentially sensitive information to people he must _know_ were his master's enemies.  
  
Then Kreacher reverently reached into one of the panels and pulled out a black rag, and Draco nearly went limp with relief. Kreacher was revealing "treasures," all right, things concealed by the Black family. But that didn't mean all of them would be valuable now. This rag looked as if it might once have been a shiny cloth, but it had decayed beyond all recognition.  
  
"This is once covering the table of Kreacher's masters," said the elf, and fluttered the rag at them.  
  
Draco didn't turn to look at the blond Death Eater, but he knew what would be coming off him in waves: boredom and disgust. Those were the two emotions that Death Eaters felt most often, along with greed and fear. He stepped forwards and solemnly cast a spell that would create a silver net to put the rag in. He would take it with him, but not even up to keep up the act could he force himself to touch it.  
  
"You have done well, Kreacher," he said, and the house-elf bowed and simpered.  
  
"Then Kreacher is showing Master Draco Malfoy more things!" he said, and moved on to the next panel, which proved to contain a sludge of rotting fruit. And the next held a broken toy unicorn, and the one after that a book of scary stories probably hidden to keep them away from children.  
  
"I suppose you think this is funny, Malfoy?" muttered the Death Eater, and pressed up close behind him. "Get on with finding the valuable things our lord said he wanted!"  
  
"I don't own this house," said Draco, without looking over his shoulder. He found it substantially easier to sound calm and confident when he kept his eyes on Kreacher and away from the Death Eater's face. "I've only lived here for a short time. I have to rely on the elf to show me valuable things. And you know how their sense of things can get distorted, when they've only lived in one place and only ever served one family."  
  
The Death Eater snarled and prodded Draco in the back with his wand. "If you're holding out on the Dark Lord--"  
  
And that just _snapped_ something inside Draco, something fragile and seething. He turned around and made the Death Eater rise onto his toes with the way his wand jabbed his throat. The Death Eater coughed, tears starting from his eyes.  
  
"Maybe you can think more about what you're doing," Draco said, and his voice _hissed_ as it slid over his tongue and teeth and lips. "Threatening one of the few followers who's been helping the Dark Lord's for weeks now?"  
  
The Death Eater choked again, and then managed to flutter his wand in a way that probably indicated surrender. Draco stepped back, making sure to keep a sneer on his face as he shook his head.  
  
"You're _pathetic_ ," he said. "You'd better hope that the Dark Lord needs people like you to run his errands."   
  
He lifted an invisible, nonverbal Delayed Shield--it would react only if the Death Eater tried to fire a curse at his back--and then moved towards the stairs. He knew this was a dangerous moment. The blond might decide the torment of humiliation outweighed any of the consequences that "the Dark Lord" would deal out later. Death Eaters had never been good at seeing the long-term effects of their actions.  
  
But after a long, sullen moment, Draco heard the sound of footsteps following him.  
  
Draco breathed out slowly, and began hoping that he could explain things sufficiently to reassure Pansy and Astoria.  
  
*  
  
"You can see, my Lord, that we have been trying to do your bidding."  
  
Harry deliberately let only half his mouth turn up in a smile, a gesture he had sometimes seen Voldemort practice in his visions, and tilted his head back as if admiring the ceiling of the house that arched high overhead. That ceiling was made of thick dark oak, the rafters gleaming with the edge of a spell Harry knew: one that would prevent fire. It seemed the Death Eaters had taken more precautions against an enemy attack than Harry had originally thought they had.  
  
Which would make them more difficult to defeat, of course.  
  
But Harry couldn't even wonder about defeat yet. He turned towards Lucius, who bowed his head at once when Harry met his eyes.   
  
Lucius knew, Harry thought. Or at least suspected, because if he knew he would try to rally the other Death Eaters and make them turn on Harry. But he was more likely than Greyback and some of the others to have heard of Harry's Parseltongue, because Malfoy would surely have written him in second year complaining about it.  
  
"You have succeeded well," said Harry, and then stepped up and put one hand on Lucius's shoulder, leaning in to speak into his ear. That brought on a jealous stir from the other Death Eaters around them, as Harry had thought it would. Well, if he could keep them off-balance and anxious to keep his good opinion, that was all to the good. "But things will be different now, Lucius."  
  
"How could they fail to be, my Lord?" Lucius twisted his head and looked Harry in the eye. "Now that you have returned to lead us."  
  
_Very smooth, Malfoy._ But Harry had had backup plans for such a response in mind, and he only smiled mysteriously now and let go of Lucius's shoulder. "Of course they will be," he said, and turned to raise his voice to the Death Eaters, trying to remember the way Voldemort had announced meetings. "Assemble in the dining room, and await me! I will speak to you of our glorious future as soon as the younger Malfoy returns!"  
  
There was a cheer, and some of the Death Eaters began to move in the direction of what Harry assumed was either a dining room or _the_ dining room. Harry took a step, and found Lucius's hand lightly but insistently on his arm, restraining him.  
  
Harry turned in one smooth motion that both ripped Lucius's hand away and ended up with his own fingers clenched on Lucius's throat. Lucius uttered one hasty choke, his eyes wide. Then he dropped to his knees, urged along but not entirely propelled by Harry's hold.  
  
"You will not touch me without my permission," Harry said, and added a hiss to his words as he leaned down. "You have done well, Lucius, but _you are not infallible._ As you proved during the war." He accented the last word hard enough to make several of the people still in the room flinch. And of course most of them were still there, watching this power-play with fascinated eyes. "If you touch me again..."  
  
He shrugged Lucius off and moved towards the dining room, not looking back. He knew Lucius had never really intended to bring Voldemort back. He had always meant to lead these resurrected Death Eaters himself.  
  
Harry would have to watch out to avoid being stabbed in the back.  
  
He found himself wanting to grin as he had the thought, and managed to twist it into a sort of evil smirk. Since when had he been _without_ someone wanting to do that?  
  
*  
  
"We are back, my lord," said Draco, and managed to bow and hold the bow when he came into what once must have been the dining room of this house and saw Potter sitting at the head of the table.  
  
For an instant, blackness had danced at the edges of his vision, and nausea had seared his throat. It had reminded him _so much_ of the dining room in Malfoy Manor, and the way the Dark Lord had held court there.  
  
But this was not the same place, not the same people, and he would have to answer for his conduct if he was weak now. He reminded himself of that, and walked with firm confidence towards the back of the room. Pansy and Astoria trailed behind him, and the blond Death Eater brought up the rear.  
  
Pansy, luckily, hadn't needed much prodding from Draco, or veiled references to things in their past, to pick up what Draco was trying to convey to her, coded, in front of the Death Eater. She had only nodded when Draco made a reference to "my Lord" and "our Lord's faithful followers," and directed Astoria to pack up the few things they were using and presumably couldn't live without in their next waystation.  
  
Astoria's eyes had been big and terrified, but she was still young. Draco could help all the Death Eaters attributed her nerves to that.  
  
Potter nodded distantly to Draco as he entered. Then he smiled and stood up and extended his hands. Not all the chattering or whispering voices fell immediately silent, but then Potter _hissed_.  
  
Draco straightened up and kept walking through a sheer effort of will, the same thing that had kept him moving when he was being forced to torture people. He knew this was Potter. No matter how much some of the others taunted him, he knew--  
  
And then he saw his father.  
  
Draco stumbled, hard, but he turned it into a kneeling posture. He heard Pansy and Astoria hastily kneeling behind him, and the blond Death Eater dithering a bit before he did the same thing. Draco slumped with his hands on the floor and his face pointed towards them, doing his best to shed the clinging shock that would make him vulnerable if he let it persist.  
  
"My _loyal_ followers," said Potter, and there was an edge of mad laughter to his voice. That was better acting than Draco would have been able to do. He concentrated on breathing and holding his still, placid expression with a hint of fear. He couldn't betray his whirling mind now. "You will want to know what I plan for the future."  
  
"We do, we do!" came a chorus of voices that it sounded as if Greyback was leading. No matter how hard he listened, Draco couldn't hear his father's voice in it. And Pansy and Astoria, he hoped, would be smarter than to draw attention to themselves right now.  
  
_His father.  
_  
Draco felt as though someone had placed him on a whirling chain and was spinning him so violently that he would be sick on the floor in a second. His head pounded and he shuddered continually, one hand rising as though he would claw back a bit of sanity.  
  
Luckily, no one seemed to notice, or just took it as a general part of the clapping and yelling and hand-waving going on in response to Potter's announcement. Draco swallowed and made himself sit up, though he kept his head turned away from the part of the room where Lucius Malfoy stood. That was easy enough, with Potter right in front of him and turning back and forth with his arms spread, as though asking to be the focus of all eyes.  
  
_He's a better actor than I thought,_ Draco decided, distant and numb. _You would never know that he hates attention right now._  
  
"This is my plan," Potter hissed, and his voice dropped. Most of the Death Eaters in the room leaned forwards, including Draco, before he thought about it. He blinked a second later. He remembered that as a trick that Professor Snape had used to make him listen, especially during that disastrous sixth year when he was trying to argue Draco out of completing his task with the Vanishing Cabinet and Dumbledore.  
  
"The Ministry thinks that they have a reliable way to locate Dark wizards," Potter whispered. "It was destroyed today by a loyal follower of mine, but they can rebuild it. What I need is the _notes_ for the machine."  
  
_What he wanted the Death Eaters to steal or check in the first place, when he thought it was only Greyback and his lot,_ Draco decided, his heart pounding erratically.  
  
"But if we get them, what happens if someone has a copy of the notes?" Lucius asked, and Draco had to look at him, at the sleek way he rose to his feet and then stood with bowed head before Potter a second later. "Then they could rebuild it anyway. My lord."  
  
The challenge was subtle, but there. Draco swallowed heavily. Just because he recognized it didn't mean Potter would.  
  
"That is true," said Potter, and he tilted his head back and laughed softly. "But we have the _willingness_ they do not, to call on Dark magic to get our ends accomplished. What does the Light Ministry know about such things?"  
  
_A lot,_ Draco thought, having recognized some of the runes on the walls around Lethe. But the rest of the Death Eaters hadn't been inside that room with Potter, and they didn't know about the amazing recklessness he was capable of even when acting as himself. Their excited chatter and applause started up again.  
  
"We will use Dark magic in the making of our weapon," said Potter, and turned back and forth, his arms still spread and a skeletal smile on his face, as though awaiting the obvious question.  
  
Draco had nearly made up his mind to ask it when Greyback called it out. "What is our weapon going to be, my Lord?"  
  
"The Lightfinder was flawed," said Potter. "It revealed the level of a wizard's power and affinity, not his soul or the amount of his personal Darkness. But the concept is sound. We cannot only create a weapon that will reveal the Light among us and thus whether someone has turned disloyal to me, but..." He paused again.  
  
Draco held his breath, secure in that he at least wouldn't be out of placing in doing that. _Come on, Potter. Come up with a load of brilliant bollocks or something you can_ pretend _is brilliant, because there are people here who will see through anything less than that._ Honestly, Draco wondered whether even brilliance would be enough to fool some people, like his father, who hadn't wanted to see the Dark Lord come back.  
  
"We will use it," said Potter, and his smile was writhing around on his face in a way that frankly scared Draco, "to find Light wizards, and turn them Dark!"  
  
The gasp that traveled around the room ended with an explosion of cheering. Greyback and several others were all trying to shout about how they had always known their Dark Lord was intelligent, and wasn't dead, and would come up with some scheme to end the wretched Light for once and all. A few people kept silent, Pansy and Astoria among them, but Draco could see the eyes of the other followers glowing.   
  
And then there was his father, who maintained an expression on his face that could be seen as supportive and interested if you didn't know him well. Draco did, and he knew it was his politely skeptical expression. He swallowed. There was no doubt his father would do his best to undermine Potter.  
  
Whether Potter could counter that, Draco had no idea. He only knew that Potter might not be aware the danger existed, but being with him in private where he and Draco could explore strategies to minimize the danger seemed like an unattainable goal right now.  
  
"How would that work, my Lord?" Greyback was at the front of the crowd, probably having less than no interest in how it would _actually_ work, Draco thought cynically, but craning his head back and asking the eager questions to stand out further to the "Dark Lord."  
  
"That will be based on the research already done by my first three most loyal followers, the ones who saw me within the husk that held the piece of my soul and came to awaken me," said Potter, and nodded to Draco, Pansy, and Astoria. "They are the ones who will lead the project and report directly to me."  
  
Draco swallowed a little when he saw the hostile eyes that brought to them, and Astoria's went wide enough to make her look like a deer. He wondered if Potter really _realized_ that he had just lowered their life expectancy.  
  
Then he shook himself, hard. He knew Potter wouldn't have done this on purpose, nothing like it. He was probably thinking that he had extended his protection over them, and made them _less_ likely to be harmed by the other Death Eaters.   
  
Sure enough, a second later, Potter added almost casually, "I will be disappointed if jealousy and ambition trim the ranks of my followers or lead to infighting where you should be one instrument of my will, forwarding my revenge on our enemies and my conquest of the wizarding world. _Is that clear_?"  
  
And he was looking straight at Draco's father. Draco swallowed again, slowly, deciding that Potter wasn't as oblivious as Draco had feared he was, after all.  
  
"Clear," said Draco's father after a moment, when it had become obvious that Potter was waiting for a response and wouldn't simply look away until he got one.  
  
"Good," said Potter, and gave them all a dazzling smile that melted into a sneer. Draco shivered. Yes, that had been something the Dark Lord did as well, a habit that Draco was far too familiar with for his liking. "Now, you will, I know, _excuse_ me and permit me to speak in private with my first faithful followers, and assign them their research tasks." He began to move towards one of the doors from the dining room as though he knew where he was going, gesturing Draco, Pansy, and Astoria to follow.  
  
"One moment, my Lord." Fenrir Greyback was bowing in a cringing way in front of Potter, his hands spread as though he was preparing to turn into a wolf and spring aside if Potter struck at him. "Is there nothing else that any of us can do in your plan to corrupt the Lightfinder?" He lifted adoring eyes to Potter.  
  
Draco blinked. He didn't remember Greyback behaving like that around the real Dark Lord. Maybe the difference in behavior was enough to convince him he could ask questions without taking his life into his hands.  
  
"Later," said Potter, and let his hand trail over Greyback's head and shoulder as he went past, "I'll tell you." His curt gesture left Draco, Pansy, and Astoria with no choice but to follow.  
  
Draco was glad for that, actually. He ran almost cringing after Potter, and didn't care who saw it. It would be better for him, anyway, if they all underestimated him, if they thought of caution as fear.  
  
Not meaning to, Draco did catch his father's eye.  
  
_There's at least one person here it'll be difficult to fool._  
  
*  
  
"I thought he was in Azkaban."  
  
Harry nodded to Draco. They were in a warded room with the strongest Eavesdropping Charms and even a few Darker spells Aster had taught them up and focused around the door and windows and even the gap under the door. "I know. I sort of suspected he was behind restraining Greyback, but I wasn't sure until I saw him. It was a shock."  
  
"Why did you think it was _him_?" Draco's head was up in a second, and he glared at Harry as if he was the cause of all this.  
  
_And I thought of him as Draco._ That fact, that he was the one who had made that particular decision, made it possible for Harry to look calmly back instead of taking offense. "Because I couldn't think of a lot of other people who would be able to make Greyback obey them and also stay well-hidden. It would have to be someone who was prominent in the Death Eaters, and someone who had a lot of prestige and magical power, at least once upon a time. I think your father means to resurrect the Death Eaters and lead them."  
  
"Of course he does," Draco said, in a dismissive way, as though he was impatient of the conclusion. "Why else would he do anything else?"  
  
"What do we _do_?" Parkinson broke in, harshly enough that Harry winced a little. But Draco needed some time to sit back and recover, and the question was a legitimate one. "What else _can_ we do? Is there anything?"  
  
"Of course there's something," Harry said, and smiled a little at her when she made a face at him. "I plan to use the Death Eaters to build a sort of Lightfinder that will get rid of the irrational fear that the original one spread among the population. And get those notes about Lethe out of the Department of Mysteries. I was inside the thing. I don't know what happened. I want to make sure there aren't any side-effects, though."  
  
"Those are things that benefit you." Draco leaned forwards again. "What about _us_?"  
  
"End this magical fear, and you can go back to your normal lives." Harry shrugged. "Or as close as you can get. You've already been sentenced, Draco. Astoria, you were never in trouble. Parkinson...we'll figure out something. For now, though, I _do_ need you to do some research." He glanced at Draco. "You brought a lot of Black books with you? If not, it might be safe to go back to Grimmauld Place one more time, but no more than that."  
  
"I was thinking of the _far_ safer course of having your house-elf bring things here," said Draco stiffly.  
  
Harry wanted to smack his own forehead, but refrained. "Of course. That's a good idea." He sighed. "I need you lot. I can't do this without you. Even if I can think of some lies, I can't think of everything."  
  
"I'm astonished you're as good as you are," said Draco simply.  
  
Harry held his eyes for a second, then shrugged. "I can improvise." He turned to Parkinson and Astoria. "And in the meantime, we need to improvise some way to contact our allies, and warn them to keep out of the way of the Death Eaters."  
  
Parkinson and Astoria were happy to discuss that, but Draco said almost nothing. His burning eyes never moved from the side of Harry's face, as though he was seeing an entirely new vision he had never encountered before.  
  
_Let's hope it's a good one._


	22. The First Confrontation

Draco moved slowly and cautiously through the corridor of the manor house the Death Eaters had claimed, looking around at the walls when he thought he might find a coat of arms or other indication of who the manor had belonged to. He found it hard to imagine any Death Eaters, even ones led by his father, would have simply stumbled on a house this well-hidden and safe.  
  
His imagination seemed to have conjured his father. Lucius stepped from around the corner and performed a low bow he held for a number of silent beats of irony before he straightened. He gave Draco a chill smile.  
  
 _No more indicative of his feelings than rock is of fire beneath it,_ Draco thought, and concealed his shiver with the thought of what they would lose should Lucius  _know_ , for certain, that they were pretending instead of only suspecting it.  
  
"I am sure you have many things to tell me," Lucius murmured, and managed to make that sound like a threat.  
  
In truth, Draco thought as he held Lucius's gaze, his father could manage to make anything sound like a threat. Draco had to anticipate that reality and work with it rather than wish it never happened.  
  
"I do," Draco said, and he made his voice calm and confident. "Where would you like to have this discussion?"  
  
His father turned and walked away without replying, but Draco had no intention of letting that power play ride unchallenged. He locked his legs and called pleasantly after Lucius, "Where was that?"  
  
Lucius turned. His eyes were unforgiving.  
  
Draco held them anyway, until his father nodded and said, "The kitchen," in a voice like a raven's.  
  
Draco nodded as pleasantly and accompanied him, not showing that his heart rate was fit to make rocks leap.  
  
*  
  
Harry sneered a little at Greyback as the werewolf sidled up to him. They were once again in the dining room, this time with a meal spread in front of them. Harry wondered if even Death Eaters could see the silver and crystal and utterly ignore the pitiful quantity of poorly cooked food on the plates, but then, Death Eaters were pretty good at ignoring other things.  
  
 _Such as common sense,_ Harry thought, turning to face Greyback.  _And sanity._  
  
"Master," Greyback breathed, bending himself down so he could bow like a dog begging someone to play. "You can spare a minute for your most faithful servant?" He arched his neck around Harry's chair to snarl at Astoria and Parkinson, who sat further down the table on Harry's other side.  
  
Astoria looked like she was going to faint. Parkinson gave Greyback a cool look that was the product of Merlin knew how many acting skills, and went back to eating.  
  
"Always," said Harry, and waited for the dawning of Greyback's smile before he added, "Which means that you are cut out from the category," and faced Astoria and Parkinson again. "How soon will you be able to resume your research?"  
  
He made sure that his voice was deeper and colder than the one he would have used to them otherwise, and laid a hiss on the last word. Astoria still blanched, but Parkinson met his eyes without fear and said, "As soon as possible, my Lord."  
  
Harry doubted that anyone else in the room would read the emphasis she placed on her own last word as something coming from rage instead of a desire to curry favor with the all-powerful Dark Lord. He smiled back as smarmily as he could and nodded. "Then you will need to find the books in the library to your taste." He swiveled back to face Greyback, who immediately came to life and fawned again instead of continuing to stand there with a scowl on his face. "You can do a service  _for_ my faithful servants."  
  
This time, Greyback seemed inclined to swallow any insult, and only nodded frantically. "I live to serve you, my Lord."  
  
"Of course you do," said Harry, dismissively. He must have done it right, because Greyback looked ready to faint with adoration. Harry stared down and added distantly, "Any books on soul magic, Dark magic, Light magic, and the reasons for affinities." He waited until Greyback nodded before he conjured the most horrible smile he thought he was capable of and looked away. "Do this, and you will be properly rewarded."  
  
Greyback backed out of the room with breathless assurances, and left Harry alone for the moment with Parkinson and Astoria. Well, technically alone. There were still Death Eaters hovering against the wall in servile positions, but none of the others had Greyback's assurance, to approach without asking permission and demand attention.  
  
Harry waved his wand and with a single disdainful glance set up a charm that would prevent eavesdropping. The Death Eaters sagged a little, but none of them came forwards and tried to interrupt. Harry arched his eyebrows in a way that he hoped promised a Cruciatus Curse if they dared before he leaned in and whispered quietly to the women.  
  
"I want you to look for a way to build a Lightfinder that will reverse the Lightfinder's effects."  
  
"You think we'll get away with building such a thing." Parkinson was good at talking without moving her lips much, and also at making things that should be questions into statements. Harry hoped he hid his own disconcerted reaction as he nodded.  
  
"Because the research will only remain in your hands, and Draco's." Parkinson eyed him sideways. Harry laughed harshly, which made a few people who had been looking at him glance away. The laughter was probably obvious beyond the charm he'd cast, Harry decided. "The rest of these idiots will be running in circles chasing their tails."  
  
"You're the idiot if you think that Draco is going to do research with the rest of us," Parkinson said. "You're going to need him at your side, to negotiate the treacherous waters around here. It's what his father trained him for all his life. He's better than the rest of us at it."  
  
“I might need him sometimes,” Harry said. “But what do you think will happen if I look as if I’m favoring him? You think anyone will spare him?” Already the thought of what would happen if Draco was harmed made him have a headache. Of course, he had done it himself, with Lethe, or at least it could have been worse than it was. “I need you to keep him occupied as much as yourselves.”  
  
“And the rest of the Death Eaters?” Astoria was twisting her fingers in the crumbs of her uneaten meal. “We can fool them along with everyone else?”  
  
“That’s what I’m hoping will happen,” Harry agreed. He kept his head up and his expression distant, poised. The Death Eaters would take a lot from that.  
  
“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Parkinson whispered suddenly, putting one hand over his and squeezing down as though she was going to grind the bones to powder. Harry touched the back of her hand with his own finger, and she was smart enough to snatch back hers and wring it as if she was hurt. But her eyes remained on his, burning. “You’re only going along from moment to moment and playing the game that you need to stay alive.  _Right?_ ”  
  
“That pretense is going to spare your lives,” Harry told her distantly, no longer really interested in what Parkinson said. “No, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do. But I have plans.”  
  
“Oh, because  _that_ comforts me.”   
  
Harry turned his head and stared at her. Parkinson either saw something real in his eyes or she remembered their surroundings, because she grimaced and ducked her head far enough to shield her eyes with her hair. Astoria shook her head and caught Harry’s gaze, one hand reaching out in what someone watching from beyond the charms and wards could take as an appeal.   
  
“Forgive her,” she whispered. “She’s a little distraught at no longer finding herself in control of her own fate.”  
  
Harry only nodded and shoved back from the table. He had eaten all he wanted, and he thought it might be strange if the Dark Lord seemingly made a hearty meal. Well, he was experienced in all the mechanisms of starvation.   
  
“Do what I have commanded you to do,” he told Parkinson and Astoria as he ended the charm around them, and then he turned and stared at the Death Eaters again. “I will know who is good at messages among you. I will know  _now_.”  
  
He must have said it with the right edge of harsh coldness, because Rabastan Lestrange edged forwards and bowed to him. “I can charm up something that’s almost like a Patronus, my Lord!”  
  
Harry bit back the urge to ask why Lestrange couldn’t master a  _real_ Patronus. He knew how hard it had been for some members of Dumbledore’s Army, and honestly, he doubted most of the Death Eaters had all that many happy memories. “Very well. I will want you to send a message to specific Light wizards.”  
  
“Light wizards?” Lestrange’s mouth was open, and he looked back and forth between Harry and a specific point on the wall as though he would find the answer written there as to why Harry was acting so strange. “My L-lord?”  
  
Harry sneered at him, but this time Lestrange wasn’t the only Death Eater looking as if he was a nutter. Well, time to prove that Harry could do an even better Voldemort impression than they’d thought.  
  
He raised his wand and began to twirl it slowly through his fingers, the way he knew Voldemort often had before he tortured someone. Lestrange seemed to be trying to turn into a statue. Harry rounded the end of the table and walked up to him, reaching out with one hand and trying hard to remember the shape that Voldemort’s fingers would have curved into when he touched someone on the face. Of course, Voldemort had had longer fingers than Harry, so it wouldn’t be a perfect imitation.  
  
“How long,” Harry said, and let his voice descend into a grating hiss, “do you mean to  _doubt_ me?”  
  
Lestrange looked as if he expected Harry’s hand against his chin to start burning him any second. “N-never, my Lord!” he squeaked, and tried to abase himself. Harry followed him down, hissing, and Lestrange curled up and cried out, “My Lord, I won’t question you again! I was only s-surprised that you wanted to contact Light wizards.”  
  
Harry knelt there and stared down with his lips slightly parted, trying to give the impression that he would kill Lestrange any second. Then he drew back and laughed and laughed. Lestrange half-relaxed, still staring up at him anxiously.  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, shaking his head. “Of course. I should have known, should have suspected…” He leaned more comfortably back and used his wand to push his fringe off his forehead. “You still see me as  _Harry Potter,_ don’t you, Rabastan? You still think of me as the weak little boy who I  _conquered_ and not the Lord you served?”  
  
“No, my Lord,” Lestrange said, and smashed his face against the floor.  
  
“Yes, you do,” said Harry, and touched his wand to the curve of Lestrange’s spine, tracing down until he could feel the quivering muscles. He wondered if he should cast the Cruciatus Curse. At that moment, trembling on the brink of hatred so intense that it was like a revelation, he knew he could have done it.   
  
But other things would convince them. He stepped back from Lestrange, stood up against the dining room table, and started laughing.  
  
No one in the room relaxed. Harry went on laughing with his hand on the base of his throat, as if he was about to choke, and then spun around and snapped to Lestrange, “I want to contact the Light wizards because they will help us thinking I am  _him_. Do you  _understand_ now?”  
  
“You want to fool Potter’s friends, and then they’ll help you and we can trick them!” That was a Death Eater who bounced up and down with his tattered robes flapping around him, clapping his hands and cackling.  
  
Harry gave the man a full, deep smile. He thought it wasn’t as effective at being crazy as the one the man gave him in return, which showed several cracked and a lot of yellowed teeth. “Yes. We will pull them in, and then we will  _crush them_.” He lowered his voice into a croon. “Potter is utterly annihilated, but I still owe his friends some rather—special treatment for their help in trying to kill me.”  
  
Several other Death Eaters started laughing them, as if they wanted to show willing. Harry turned around in the middle of them, with his arms spread and smile stretched out and heart withering and hollow inside him.  
  
 _This needs to be worth it, in the end._  
  
*  
  
There were no house-elves in the kitchen, but several cups of tea and plates of warm bread and honey waited. Draco had barely laid eyes on them before he realized how hungry he was. He was able to sit down and pick up one steaming cup of tea and attend to his father instead of slamming around the room in search of food, though. He wouldn’t show the weakness of hunger until Lucius had begun to eat.  
  
Lucius seemed to want something to do with his hands, so he picked up a plate of bread soon enough. Grateful for the implied permission, Draco casually drew the plate towards him, chose a piece of bread, and began to eat. He wouldn’t have dared if he and his father had been at Malfoy Manor and Lucius was about to interrogate him, but he needed to show that he wasn’t under his father’s sway here.   
  
 _Or I’ll never get out._  
  
“You seem to be extraordinarily comfortable with our Lord,” said his father, and propped up one foot against the table leg, watching Draco with eyes that, in their own way, were as famished as Draco’s stomach.  
  
“Not comfortable with him,” said Draco. This was one trap he could see no matter how long he had been out of playing the game. He swallowed a mouthful of steaming sweetness and ducked his head. “ _Useful_ to him.”  
  
“Ah.” Lucius left the word lingering in the air with a wealth of meaning, but Draco kept his head bowed over his plate and didn’t look up. Lucius had to start speaking himself, which probably annoyed him, Draco thought. “So you did not go to the Dark Lord and offer your services to him from the beginning?”  
  
“How could I, when I thought he was Potter?” Draco shrugged. It was risky, spinning a lie like this when he hadn’t had time to consult Potter, but on the other hand, he thought Potter would probably have told him to take free rein. He seemed pretty good at responding to the lies Draco came up with and elaborating on them instead of contradicting them. “I went to Potter because I thought that, as an accused Dark wizard, he could help me fight for my freedom.”  
  
Lucius flattened out one hand on the table. “When will you learn that there is no compromising with Light wizards?” he whispered. “And Potter was the Lightest one of all.”  
  
Draco resisted the temptation to blink. He supposed that information might have been hard-put to come by for Lucius, both because of his isolation and because Death Eaters like Greyback would probably keep it to themselves to encourage power plays. “They put Potter through the Lightfinder. He tested Dark.”  
  
Lucius sat up. “ _What_?”  
  
“About midway down their ridiculous scale of Dark and Light.” Draco permitted himself a sneer, an honest one. If he had  _no_ honest reactions, his father would stumble onto the game a lot sooner. “Green, the fourth color out of seven. And since then, he’s tested Darker yet. Indigo.” He paused and shot his father a look. “But considering who he really is, that’s not a surprise.”  
  
“Of course not.” For some reason, his father’s voice was soft, and he looked into the distance as though he was constructing a backup plan because one of his had failed. Draco blinked. Was it only that Lucius wouldn’t find himself in control of the Death Eaters now that the “Dark Lord” had returned? Perhaps. If Lucius had wanted out of this altogether, Draco knew he would have stayed far away from the rest of the Death Eaters after he escaped.  
  
And that meant Draco had something else to worry about. “How did you escape?” he asked. “Or did you never go into custody in the first place, and Mother lied to me?” He couldn’t escape the hurt that entered his voice on those last words. It was one thing for his parents to keep secrets when he was a child, but he had suffered to think of his father under the Dementors’ control. His mother could at least have sent him a reassuring message.  
  
“Your mother doesn’t know that, and neither should you.” Lucius looked directly at him. “If someone tries to read your mind, it’s better if you don’t know.”  
  
“On the other hand, if I don’t know and the Dark Lord wants me to tell him, then I’m going to suffer,” Draco retorted. Lucius had to be talking about their supposedly resurrected leader. There weren’t any other Legilimens among the Death Eaters now that Snape and Bellatrix were dead, and precious few people in the Ministry competent enough to get through Draco’s barriers.  
  
Lucius squinted at him once, and then drew back his sleeve. There was something around his wrist. Draco leaned over to stare at it. From a distance, it probably just looked like a band of pale skin, the kind that might form where someone wore a bracelet too tightly.  
  
Close in, Draco could make out the overlapping rounds of silver and pearly-colored skin, turned to metal. He didn’t recognize the nature of it, but he knew what it was. A promise sigil. Draco sat back and stared at Lucius.  
  
What kind of deal had his father  _made_?  
  
“I summoned something whose name you need not know,” said Lucius, casually. He must have picked up on some of what Draco felt from his expression. Draco dropped his eyes and flushed. He would need to school his reactions more carefully, or his father might pluck information from them that would hurt Potter and the rest of them. “You may rest assured that I can give the thing what it wants.”  
  
Draco ate some more bread, and olives from a bowl that had appeared noiselessly on the table, and had no idea what to say. Lucius had taught him about promise sigils, the brands that wizards wore when they had made bargains with some of the older forces of magic, when he was young. He had always made Draco swear to never use one.  
  
 _They’re more trouble than they’re worth._  
  
That was what Draco still heard whenever he read or thought about promise sigils, the heavy words in his father’s unusually heavy voice that day in the library. He sat back, his eyes on Lucius, and wondered.   
  
He would have to find out why his father had broken out of prison in the first place, he thought, to understand. It had to be for more than leading the Death Eaters, or he wouldn’t have risked this kind of binding.  
  
Lucius held his gaze, and then turned casually away. “Whose interests do you serve the most,” he asked, “the Dark Lord’s or mine?”  
  
Draco choked on an olive.  _That_ was unexpectedly blunt. He put down the dish of olives and stared at his father, who looked blandly back at him. Draco clenched his fingers around the edge of the small plate and thought furiously for a moment.  
  
“I serve the interest of staying alive and free,” he said. “The Ministry tried me and let me go, but then started hunting me again the minute I Apparated away. And they’re hunting Pansy, and Astoria for helping us. Those are the things I want.”  
  
“Freedom and happiness for your friend and your lover?” Lucius looked him straight in the eye. “You realize that you have options other than Miss Greengrass, if you do not want to be married to her.”  
  
The first thing that rose in Draco’s mind when Lucius said that was the image of Potter, standing before the kneeling Death Eaters in Grimmauld Place and laughing in his imitation of the Dark Lord. Draco blinked it away. No matter what he might have to pretend, he could not  _serve_ Potter any more than he could his father.  
  
Given that, it was no bad thing that Lucius might think he was in love with Astoria. They were close anyway, and Draco wouldn’t object to marrying her if he had to, and it made a useful disguise for spending time with her.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “And myself, of course.”  
  
Lucius gave him a small nod. “I’m afraid that you will have to expand your goals, now that you’re here,” he said casually, and picked up another piece of bread. “I doubt our Lord will let you simply sit around all the time and stare into Miss Greengrass’s eyes.”  
  
 _If you knew_. Draco contented himself with another nod. “Of course. I’m prepared to fight Light wizards if I have to, or sneak around on secret missions. I assumed that was what we would have to do anyway, now that the Lightfinder has been destroyed.” He didn’t say anything about Lethe, since he didn’t know yet whether Lucius would have heard about it.  
  
Lucius paused once, then put down his plate. “I was unaware that  _that_ was the import of the news Greyback was spouting.”  
  
Because it was Greyback, Draco knew, as much as anything. Greyback might lie as part of a power play, but he would also be hard to trust when he was reporting the truth because of his excitability.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “Our Lord wanted it done, and the Black library has a lot of books. I got the method I had worked out to Blaise, and he did the rest.”  
  
“Well,” said Lucius. Once again, his eyes were distant, and his mind, Draco was sure, racing. He wondered why his father was having to so visibly recalculate his plans. Could he have come up with something that took advantage of the Lightfinder’s existence? Unlikely, if he didn’t even know that Potter had tested as Dark.  
  
Then Lucius leaned forwards and smiled at Draco and said, “We can work together, Draco. We can make sure that we achieve renown for our family now that the Dark Lord has returned and  _you_ have returned to me.”  
  
The relaxation that had been subtly building in Draco’s stomach disappeared. Of course that was the way it was going to be. Even if he had succeeded at some things on his own and impressed his father, of course it would turn out that Lucius wanted to use him more as a pawn than someone he could respect.  
  
But it didn’t change the fact that he would have to deceive Lucius. It only changed the tenor a bit. Draco bowed his head. “I’d like to listen, Father.”  
  
He must have made his voice breathless and eager enough, because Lucius smiled and began to talk. Draco waited with his heart pounding hard and his eyes fastened on the far wall of the kitchen.   
  
 _My first loyalty is still to Astoria and Pansy. He can’t change that._  
  
Another figure rose in his mind, and Draco acknowledged the thought with a sigh.  
  
 _And to Potter. I can’t change that, either._  


	23. Promises

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” Draco asked quietly, as he shut the door of the library behind him.  
  
This library in the house had been stripped of books, and all of them moved elsewhere. That was where Astoria and Pansy must be at the moment, researching, Draco thought. He and Potter were here in this bare room with only a few windows clogged by the dusty remnants of curtains and a few equally dusty chairs sitting on the carpet.   
  
“The deception?” Potter flicked his wand at the door, and Draco flinched as he heard prompt screams. It sounded as though Potter was torturing him from outside the room, he realized. That would probably keep up the pretense that he was the same as any other follower, someone that the Dark Lord could torture when he felt like it. It was necessary. It was…  
  
Not the kind of thing Draco would have expected Potter to think of. And that maybe meant he was going to try and keep up the bloody pretense harder than Draco had thought he would, after all.  
  
“As long as it takes to build that reverse Lightfinder,” said Potter, and sank down on one of the chairs. Draco took the one opposite, studying him warily. Potter’s fingers were grinding and crunching into his knee, wavering back and forth, letting out tension. He saw Draco meeting his eyes and smiled back, sourly.  
  
“Why a reverse one?” Draco asked. “Do you think showing the Darkness as Light, or whatever you’re thinking, is really going to convince anyone?”  
  
“No,” said Potter. “I’m still waiting on confirmation of what happened when Zabini destroyed the original, but I’d say that it probably scattered fear across the crowd—either natural fear or magical fear of the kind that I think it was already causing. Why were so many people who should know better going along with the Ministry? Because of that irrational blast of fear that using the Lightfinder caused in those notes we found. At least, if they didn’t build it right, and we know they  _didn’t_.”  
  
Draco blinked. “Okay,” he said. “So some of the irrationality we were facing might have been magical. So—”  
  
“So a reverse Lightfinder, built and then destroyed in a sufficiently public place, might be enough to give them their minds back.”  
  
Draco stared, and didn’t try to hide that he was staring. Potter shook his head as though the very gaze was an imposition, and added nastily, “What? If you’re going to tell me why that won’t work, then you’ll have to explain why the Lightfinder didn’t cause a lot of irrationality, when I think it did—”  
  
“I wasn’t going to tell you why it wouldn’t work,” Draco interrupted quietly. “I was going to ask you how you came up with the idea. Merlin, you weren’t even the one doing the primacy research on it back at the Black house.”  
  
Potter lifted his head, and his eyes glittered dangerously. “And because of that, you think me incapable of coming up with something like this?”  
  
“I just want to know how you did.” Draco stared at him again, his stomach and heart and pulse all leaping. “It’s—it’s brilliant, and it might work.”  
  
Potter relaxed slowly against the back of the chair, and then nodded sharply. “All right. That comforts me. I mean, I thought it would work or I wouldn’t have tried to propose it, but I wasn’t sure.”  
  
Draco only studied him for a moment, shaking his head. Potter looked back at him with raised eyebrows until he apparently got tired of the shaking head without further explanation, and said, “Okay. What?”  
  
“You’re so much more than I thought you were,” Draco murmured. “Even after the first time you pretended to fool Greyback and the others, I would never have thought you could hold your own in front of them for an extended period of time like this.”  
  
“I do it, or the lot of us don’t survive,” said Potter simply. “And since I’ve survived both Voldemort’s attempts to kill me and the Ministry’s attempts to put me in some magical machine they hadn’t finished yet, I’d like to go on doing it. Now. What did your father want to talk to you about? Did he make you promise anything?”  
  
Draco stared at him. “How did you know that I’d been talking to him?”  
  
“Because he slipped out of the dining room right after he did.” Potter flashed him a tired grin. “I knew that he would want to speak to you, of course. Did he?”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco, giving away the admission ungrudgingly, because Potter had impressed him so. “He said that he thought the two of us could fool you and make you think he had been working in your favor all along. Oh, he didn’t say it so bluntly,” he added, as Potter’s eyebrows rose in a different way this time. “But that’s what he meant. I think he never had any intention of trying to bring the Dark Lord back. He meant to lead the Death Eaters on his own, although I don’t know what he intended to do with them beyond that.”  
  
He hesitated, swallowed, and chose his side firmly and completely. “He also has a promise sigil on his wrist. Do you know what that is?”  
  
Potter looked blank, which reassured Draco a little. Potter might be much smarter and more capable than Draco had thought he was, but that wasn’t the same as knowing everything. “It means that he made a promise of some sort to the primal forces of magic,” Draco explained tersely. “They can be called on by name if you’re stupid enough to do that sort of thing, and you know the right names.”  
  
“It sounds like Muggles summoning demons,” said Potter, blinking rapidly.  
  
Draco shrugged, uncaring. “I don’t know if demons are real or not, or what Muggles do. But the sigil is a circle of skin on your wrist that means you made a promise on your magic. You have to do something in return for them, or—well, losing your magic is the  _least_ of it. You’re much likelier to go mad or die.”  
  
“What did he call on it for?”  
  
Draco relaxed again. Potter had asked the most important question. “He needed help breaking out of Azkaban. I’m more worried about what he promised in return, though. He used to make me promise I would never do something like that. For him to…”  
  
Potter leaned back against the chair and spent a moment staring through one of the grimy windows, tapping his fingers on his leg. Draco watched him, trying to understand the emotion that was turning like a whirlwind in his chest.  
  
He was looking to Potter to get them out of this. As though Potter was his  _leader,_ in some ridiculous way, like the lot who was always depending on him to win the war.  
  
Draco grimaced. He supposed he could make a habit of relying on Potter if he didn’t do it _too_  often.  
  
“Yes, it is strange,” said Potter at last, sitting up and shaking his head. “But I don’t know what he would have promised it, either. I’ll do what I can to find it out.” He leaned in and held Draco’s eyes for a second. “I have Parkinson and Astoria researching on the reverse Lightfinder. The Death Eaters think it’s some Dark project, of course.” Potter rolled his eyes for a second. “I really can’t believe how stupid they are.”  
  
Draco grunted, but said nothing. Until a few years ago, he would have been among the stupid Death Eaters, and probably among the ones buying Potter’s little act, although he hated to think that.  
  
“You, I need something different from.”  
  
Draco tried not to sit up, or let his chest inflate, or do any of the other ridiculous things that his ego was suggesting he should when Harry Potter needed something from him. “Yes?” he asked, a bit warily.  
  
“I need you to hold your father at bay, for one thing, and listen to his plans, and convince him that you’re on his side if all else fails.” Potter hesitated for a second, his eyes distant. “And advise me on what else I can do to convince them that I’m Voldemort. Explain who certain people are, what power structures they fell into when  _he_ was still alive, things like that.”  
  
“Right,” said Draco.   
  
Potter took a deep breath. “And run important missions for me, if you can. I think I’ve convinced the Death Eaters for now that I’m going to contact my friends only in order to taunt them, and not to explain what’s really going on and how they can help. But that pretense won’t work forever. I need you to run messages, sometimes.”  
  
 _Because he trusts me._ Draco felt a hard stab of pride, and told himself to stop being stupid. “I can do that, too.”  
  
Potter smiled at him abruptly, and Draco felt as though he was standing waist-deep in sunlight. “I would never have asked you if I thought you couldn’t,” he said simply.  
  
Draco nodded and cleared his throat so that he could speak without embarrassing himself. “And what will you be doing while I’m doing this?”  
  
“You mean, besides convincing a bunch of Death Eaters that I’m Voldemort and trying to use the research that Parkinson and Astoria bring me to construct a reverse Lightfinder?” Potter stood up and stretched.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco. “Surely not even that can occupy your every waking moment.”  
  
Potter grimaced. “Thinking about ways to make contact with my friends and get them to listen to me instead of simply striking.”  
  
“If I thought I would do any good, I would do it for you,’ said Draco, and stood up to face him. “But I think they would only decide that I was a corrupting influence or something.”  
  
“Probably.” Potter gave him an exhausted smile. “For now, let’s go and get some sleep. Make sure that you get something to eat, too.”  
  
“I already did, in the kitchens.” Draco lifted his head and snorted, because he might like the feeling of having Potter as his leader, but there were limits. “I don’t need you to watch out for me as if you were my father.”  
  
Potter stepped up beside him and pressed his shoulder. Standing this close to him and looking into his eyes, Draco found himself oddly short of breath. He had to stand straighter to compensate for his own weakness, and hoped that he looked as though he was even taller than he was.  
  
“I  _wish_  I could take the place of your father,” Potter whispered. “Merlin knows the man in that place hasn’t done  _you_ much good.”  
  
Draco said nothing. He would have disagreed about that before the war, or even during it, but his mind kept flashing back to the promise sigil on his father’s wrist, and it was very hard to disagree now. Potter looked at him as if he knew at least some of Draco’s thoughts, and pressed down on his shoulder blade again.  
  
“But I can’t take his place, and I have to ask hard things of you, too.” Potter shook him lightly for a moment. “Just do what you can, and help me, and I’ll help you. And make sure that Parkinson and Astoria come safely out of this, too,” he added, as if he thought that Draco might think he’d forgotten about them.  
  
“Of course,” Draco said quietly, and turned to watch Potter walk to the door of the room. “But what about you?”  
  
“I told you what I’d be doing,” Potter said, and paused with one hand on the door, turning to look at him in bafflement. “That’s the strategy I plan to pursue. I wouldn’t lie.”  
  
“I didn’t mean that,” said Draco. “Who’s going to take care of you and make sure that you come out of this alive?”  
  
Potter blinked as though the thought had never occurred to him, and Draco stifled his irritation. Then he smiled at Draco in a way that did cut through the dimness of the room like a comet, and shook his head.  
  
“I hope you will,” he said. “And circumstances. And I’ll fight as hard as I can for myself, don’t worry about that.” He opened the door this time, and added over his shoulder as he concealed the glamour, “Remember to limp.”  
  
Then he was gone, and Draco sat down and stared into space. He should have trusted Potter to take care of himself, Merlin knew. The tasks in front of Draco were hard enough without that additional worry, and he knew Potter had survived worse.  
  
At least, he thought so. He hoped so.  
  
But the image of that last smile remained with him, and helped to strengthen him.  
  
*  
  
Harry lay down, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing even when he kept his eyes closed and breathed softly, in rhythm with his heartbeat, and refused to move. That trick had always worked to get him to sleep at the Dursleys’.  
  
This was worse than the Dursleys.  
  
Harry finally gave up, and rolled over and reached for his wand. If he had to, he would cast a spell that would give him the sensation he had rested without actually requiring him to sleep. He had to do  _something_ to make sure that he was ready to face the troubles and confrontations of the next day.  
  
 _I don’t want to do this_.  
  
But he had started, and even if he could say that the original idea for him to imitate Voldemort had been partially Draco’s, still. It was one he had gone along with, one he had relied on it to convince Greyback and the others to leave Grimmauld Place originally, one he had used to keep them free from the Ministry and give them a relatively safe hiding place, and one that he was going to rely on to try and get them back into the wizarding world.  
  
 _And then? What if the reverse Lightfinder ends the irrational fear and panic that’s running rampant over them, and it still isn’t enough? They blame you for imitating Voldemort when they find out?_  
  
Harry lay there and let the doubt and fear tear through him, roll through him. Then he considered all the worst-case scenarios, the looks of hatred that would be on some faces, the people who would turn away from him.  
  
But not the people that mattered most, his friends and the Weasleys. He was sure of that, as sure as though he had breathed in their promises to stand by him. They had stood by him when he was an accused Dark wizard, and they would be smart enough to understand the true intent behind the messages he was having Death Eaters deliver. If they stood by him, then he didn’t need to care about anyone else.  
  
 _Well._  
  
Harry clenched one hand in the sheets behind him. It would be hard beyond hard if Draco and Astoria and Parkinson turned away from him now.   
  
 _But worst with Draco. You can admit that._  
  
Harry nodded to himself. Yes, it would be. And he supposed it was  _possible_ that once they were back in the wizarding world and he had a chance to live a somewhat normal life, Draco would walk away without a backwards glance. He might decide that he and Harry had paid all the debts they owed each other, life-debts and everything else, and he might as well leave him behind. It was a worst-case scenario to be thought of along with all the others.   
  
He considered it, he thought about it, and then he discarded it. He had an uneasy alliance with Parkinson, though it wasn’t enough to make him want to see her dead. And he thought Astoria was still fearful enough around him that he wouldn’t blame her for wanting to be away. But Draco…  
  
Draco knew his plans. He had kept following Harry into this even when he saw his father among the Death Eaters here. He would understand, no matter how limited their contact was after this.  
  
 _When did understanding become the most important thing that I could get out of anyone else?_  
  
 _When you started seeing looks of hatred and mistrust on the faces of Aurors and others who should have believed you._  
  
Harry sighed a little. Yes, all right, he could admit how profoundly he wanted that, and…  
  
And his mind was closing down, drifting slowly in the direction of darkness. He could do this, after all. He could sleep.  
  
Harry smiled, and fell asleep to a dreamed vision of Draco’s face.  
  
*  
  
“What is this?”  
  
Draco’s head snapped up. Once again, it was Potter’s voice and yet not. The deep, drifting, booming cadences of it, the hatred at the back of it, all that was the Dark Lord. And it made Rabastan Lestrange, standing in front of him with a leveled wand, whirl around and drop to his knees in a  _most_ satisfying way.  
  
“My lord,” said Lestrange, and he lifted his face and looked at Potter in a way that made Draco have to work to keep his own face expressionless, in spite of the danger they were in. “I know you tortured him yesterday, and he forfeited your favor. And…”  
  
His voice trailed off. Potter was standing in front of him with one arm wrapped around his chest, his legs slightly spread and his eyes locked on Lestrange’s. Draco silently marveled. It was  _amazing,_ the way that Potter could imitate Voldemort’s mannerisms that way. Of course, having been in the Dark Lord’s head undoubtedly helped, but it still seemed as though there was a shard of soul somewhere in him right now.  
  
 _There isn’t, right?_  
  
Draco threw the thought away as unworthy. He had much better things to worry about if he was going to keep his footing in this game.  
  
“I tortured him yesterday,” Potter agreed, and came a few steps forwards. “And I nearly did the same to you, Lestrange. I could have done more.” His voice was a deep purr now, or a hiss. Draco didn’t distinguish between the sounds when it came to the Dark Lord, and he couldn’t do it now, either. “But since when is my mercy for  _you_ to decide?”  
  
His wand came to rest on the crown of Lestrange’s head right above his ear. Lestrange was whimpering now, although he attempted to close his lips and keep the sound from getting through. Potter leaned down towards him and whispered something Draco couldn’t make out.  
  
A second later, Lestrange  _screamed,_ and Draco jolted in spite of himself. He could see the way that Lestrange was clutching his ear, and he knew that something must have happened, that Potter had used a spell. But he couldn’t tell which one until Lestrange removed his hand and Draco could see the dark spot on the side of his head and the smoke that rose from it. An electrical spell, then. A localized lightning bolt.  
  
A piece of Lestrange’s blackened ear fell to the floor.  
  
“Think on my power,” Potter whispered, and this time, Draco, and all the other Death Eaters who had come running at the scream and now cringed back against the walls, could hear him perfectly well. “Think on my mercy. Think on what it means, that I let you live now.” He paused, but Lestrange said nothing. “Because the lives of my followers are  _mine_ to take. Not yours.”  
  
He turned away with a hollow chuckle when Lestrange did nothing but whimper, and strode towards the far side of the dining room. He hadn’t made it all the way across, though, when he paused and gestured with his head sharply in Draco’s direction. “With me, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco hurried over at once, crouching and submissive. He gave one more glance at Lestrange as he passed him, checking that it wasn’t just a glamour or trick Potter had used.  
  
No. Part of Lestrange’s earlobe was gone, and so was part of the outer shell of his ear. He hadn’t dared to move from the place where he was kneeling, either.  
  
This close to Potter, Draco could see the lines that radiated up from the corners of his crinkled eyes and set teeth. He made one sharp, low noise, and Potter let his gritted jaw relax and gestured Draco along with a crooked finger. They made their way out of the dining room and into a corridor that had a few empty portrait frames and a blasted grey spot on the wall where someone had probably used it for target practice.  
  
Draco watched in silence as Potter raised a few spells that would prevent anyone from seeing or hearing into the corridor.  
  
Then Potter sagged against the wall and uttered a harsh, choking sound, one that Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to hear an Inferius utter. His hands were over his face, and he drew one down precisely, his nails raking lines of blood.  
  
“You can’t do that,” said Draco, in a soft voice. “You know what they’ll think if they see the Dark Lord with visible wounds.” He flicked his wand in a small charm that scraped over the scratches Potter had created and papered them over with new skin. “I know you despise yourself, but there are more important things than that.”  
  
Potter closed his eyes for a second, and then nodded. “You’re right. There are.” He stood up and took a step down the corridor, another mask settling over his face. He walked away without much care for where he was going, Draco thought.  
  
And that was what made Draco catch his arm and swing him around. Potter looked at him with his lips framing a silent question. Draco made a rough gesture with his head and dragged Potter against him. Potter stumbled and went with it, ending up against Draco’s chest with his eyes shut and his hands groping as though he wanted to touch something on Draco that wasn’t his chest or shoulders. Draco felt one uncertain finger brush through his hair.  
  
Draco held him in as quick and as understanding an embrace as he could muster, before letting him go. He tried to say, with his hands, that Potter had done what he could in sparing Lestrange pain and still impressing the Death Eaters enough to spare  _their_ lives. He tried to say that he knew this wasn’t easy, and he didn’t think Potter was evil.   
  
He tried to say all that, and then he let him go.  
  
Potter gave him a faint smile before he turned to resume his journey up the corridor again. Draco followed.  
  
It was important that Potter keep his sanity and not fall too far into the game, or none of them would survive this at all. That was the reason Draco had done it.  
  
It was the only reason he would need to give, should someone ask. It was a strong reason, a solid reason.  
  
Not the only one that existed. But Draco was the only one who needed to know that.  
  
Though, from the curve of Potter’s lips he could see from the side, he might know it, too.  
  
Draco pondered that, then shrugged.  _If it keeps him sane, what does it matter?_


	24. Bear the Thunder

“My Lord, Lestrange has returned with a message that you will want to hear,” said Fenrir Greyback, crouching in front of Harry and looking adoringly up at him as if that could make Harry want to pet him.  
  
Harry straightened. He had chosen a chair from the dining room as his “throne,” and used Transfiguration to alter it so that it would look like what the Death Eaters expected him to sit in when they came through the doors into this room. That had included turning it into stone and putting a curling snake around the back, continuing down onto the arms, but also adding a subtle Cushioning Charm. He didn’t want his arse to be numb if he had to move swiftly when a Death Eater challenged him.  
  
“Send him in.” He added a hiss to the s on the first word, and saw Greyback shudder with something that looked like both fear and desire as he moved to obey.  
  
Parkinson, studying from a book on the other side of the room, gave him a significant look. Harry ignored her. He was keeping her, Draco, and Astoria with him in the room on a rotating basis, supposedly to make sure that they did as they were supposed to and he didn’t have to worry about treachery from them. But Parkinson was the only one who acted like it was an inconvenience all the time.  
  
Harry hoped she wouldn’t act like that for much longer. He couldn’t justify not punishing her if she acted pushy, at least not for long.  
  
Lestrange came limping in. His right ear was still mostly gone, of course, but the black mark had faded a little. Harry made sure to look at it fixedly, and then smirk, before he turned to Lestrange.  
  
“What news of the fools who think that this body belongs to Harry Potter?” he asked, and laughed as if he had made the funniest joke in the world. It was unnerving to hear the Death Eaters all break into laughter along with him, but he had heard and survived worse things, and he wasn’t going to let this get to him.  
  
“Longbottom gave me a message for the wizard he thinks is Potter, my Lord,” Lestrange said when the laughter had faded, and bowed to him. He held out a letter that Harry longed to simply Summon to him and read. Instead, he glared at it and performed a lot of the sorts of spells that would convince someone else he was paranoid about it.  _Then_ he Summoned it fast enough to make it rasp along Lestrange’s fingers so that he winced in pain.  
  
“Let us see what the lead fool says,” he murmured as he tore it open. He drew out the single sheet of parchment, and snorted when he saw it. “ _Dear Harry. I’m not sure why you’re letting a Death Eater deliver your messages._ ”  
  
The Death Eaters laughed, the way they were supposed to. Harry fixed a sneer on his face and read some more, now and then murmuring passages aloud so they could make fun of it. They were snorting and snuffling as loudly as they could, keeping anxious eyes fixed on Harry all the while to see what his mood was.  
  
Harry finally crumpled the parchment up in his hand and sighed. Neville had believed him. He had accepted that the deception was necessary for now, and had told Harry that the destruction of the Lightfinder had created irrational fear in the entire watching audience, which was what Harry had thought would happen. People were plunging this way and that, and the  _Prophet_ contained a dozen contradictory articles about what the Ministry had said the public should do.  
  
“Well,” said Harry, and adjusted his smile to make it darker and more twisted as he rose to his feet. “The deep  _interest_ that this message has stirred in me has made me certain we can take advantage of the fear inspired by another faithful servant of mine.” He swiveled towards the corner where Parkinson sat hunched over her back. “Parkinson!”  
  
She rose to her feet, her eyes on the floor and her fingers twitching wrathfully on the cover of her book. Harry nodded to her, and made his smile as carnivorous as possible. The others who wanted to be close to him and enjoy his favor should make sure they saw the price of doing so.  
  
“You wanted something, my Lord?” Parkinson could say it sullenly enough when you gave her a chance, Harry would give her that. She mumbled the words with her eyes on the floor.  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, and drew the last s out until he saw her flinch.  _Should have done that earlier,_ he thought, remorselessly. Parkinson was the one who would have to feign most of her emotions, since Astoria was already afraid and Draco had his masks in place from long training by his father, but that was the way it was. “You will write back to Longbottom in my place. Tell him that you want to meet him somewhere. Of your choosing.” Harry waved his hand as though the place couldn’t matter less to him.  
  
Parkinson’s head came up and she gave him a startled doe-expression, blinking. Harry stared back, and she wiped it clean in a moment. Harry hoped that had been fast enough to keep the Death Eaters from thinking of her as prey. “Why, my Lord? I mean, why me?” she added hastily, as some wands rose to point at her. “I think that Longbottom would suspect the trick if I met him. We were never close friends at Hogwarts or anything like that.”  
  
“And that is precisely why it should be you,” said Harry, in a bored tone, yawning. “I don’t care who does it, but I cannot waste my time writing to him on a regular basis.” He paused, then gave her a wicked smile. “You wanted to prove you were faithful to me, didn’t you?” he whispered.  
  
“You know I am, my Lord.” Parkinson’s eyes were on the Death Eaters as she spoke. Harry wished he could shake her into looking more trusting and smug.  _Trust that I’m doing the best I can to protect you, Parkinson. The only thing._  
  
“And yet, since we came here, all you do is  _read_ ,” said Harry, and stared pointedly when Parkinson opened her mouth. She closed it a second later, probably remembering that no Death Eater objected to something the Dark Lord had told them to do. She nodded and stared at the floor.  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” she said.  
  
“What is the  _reason_ for that?” Harry brought his hand down sharply on the arm of his throne, and a spell he had cast nonverbally made the crack of breaking stone reverberate through the room. More than one person jumped. Harry smirked and leaned back, putting one hand beneath his chin in the spidery way that he remembered Voldemort doing. “You will do some  _writing_ now as well. Collate your notes. Write to the Longbottom boy. Set up the meeting. Pass it to me for my approval. You are dismissed. Go to the library.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord.” Parkinson picked up the rest of her things, bowed once, and ran. There was some subdued grinning from the Death Eaters, who probably liked the way that Harry’s last sentences to her had all been commands.  
  
 _I only hope I can keep coming up with new ways to convince them that I’m Voldemort,_ Harry thought, and turned around to stare at them. “What have  _you_ done to prove that you’re faithful?” he drawled. “Any research? Any clever plans to bring us back to power?”  
  
The grins ended at once, and some of the Death Eaters glanced at each other. Harry flowed to his feet and reached out to grip the arms of the chair, eyeing them grimly. “ _Well_?” he whispered, and let his voice descend into a hoarse hiss.  
  
“I might have one, sir,” said the blond Death Eater who had come with Greyback to Grimmauld Place and knelt to him. Harry turned to her at once. He wished he was good at Legilimency, because that way he would know her name. He needed Draco here to tell him who was who and give him some method for making the names stick, because Harry was pretty awful at names.  
  
For now, though, he ought to be able to feign what he needed. “Do you?” he asked, and gave her a long, slow look. “And would you have contributed this plan to Lucius Malfoy, had I not returned?”  
  
She flushed a little, but didn’t back down. Harry thought she seemed smarter than many of them. Perhaps that was what had got her into a position where she dared to propose plans like this to Lord Voldemort, while the rest of them looked as if they were about to shit themselves. “I would have contributed it only if he could speak Parseltongue, my Lord,” she said. “Because this plan depends on someone being able to do that.”  
  
Harry hissed at her, speaking the simple sentence, “The wall is dirty,” while he pictured a snake in his mind. It made even the woman take a step back, and she wasn’t the only one who paled. Someone whimpered from the back of the room, and someone else swore. Harry grinned a skull’s grin and whispered, “I trust that will do? Or do you need another demonstration?” He barely exaggerated the s there, and it still made someone sag into another Death Eater.  
  
“No, my lord, that will do very well.” The woman bowed to him and straightened back up with a pale face but perfect poise. “There is a vault in Gringotts that is said to be guarded by gigantic vipers, not dragons. The vault was supposedly sealed by Slytherin himself, even though he didn’t own it. It contains—”  
  
“Is said to contain,” Harry interrupted, letting his disdain show. “Do you know how many stories I have heard of the treasures my illustrious ancestor buried?”  
  
The woman shook her head a little. “I will not presume on your numbers by guessing, my Lord,” she said. “But this legend is not one circulated by many people. One of my ancestors did research on it after finding a grimoire that described it, and described it in turn only in her diary. I would not have known of it had I not read the diary.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “I can do research as well as Parkinson can, my Lord.”  
  
 _Ah, the first hint of jealousy,_ Harry thought, and debated and then discarded the thought of saying it aloud. He leaned in with his hands folded beneath his chin and his eyes narrowed in thought, and hissed, “Tell me more.”  
  
 _Work as fast as you can, Pansy, Astoria. I don’t know how much more I can take of this acid eating my soul before I succumb.  
  
_ *  
  
“Draco, come with me. I have a surprise for you.”  
  
Although he held the thought firmly in his mind that none of his father’s surprises in the past few years had ever benefited him, Draco couldn’t help the small spark of hope that leaped to life in his chest. There was the chance his father would at least include him so firmly in his plans that Draco could foil any that were a threat to Harry.  
  
 _It’s a good thing I’m not a Seer,_ he thought, as he dispatched the last bite of bread and stood up to follow Lucius through a grimy corridor .  _I would have been screaming at myself for even thinking of Potter as Harry a few years ago, let alone playing against my own father to support him._  
  
Lucius turned to look back at him, face as smooth as the skin in his promise sigil, and Draco forced himself to pay attention to the present moment. His father didn’t have skill in Legilimency, but he had always been able to tell before this when Draco had let his mind wander, and take advantage of it.  
  
“You should know,” said Lucius, as they turned into a room that Draco thought must have been another dining room, perhaps one where the family who’d owned the manor house entertained intimate friends, “that this binds you to work against as well as with the Dark Lord.”  
  
Draco hastily stepped backwards, but something invisible and smothering over the doorway sank into his body, anyway. It sputtered and sparked, and Draco felt a deep ache invading his muscles. He stretched his arms and hissed, and the sensation got worse for a moment, the way that some nutrient potions’ taste did, before fading entirely.  
  
“It wouldn’t have hurt so much if you hadn’t been intending to serve the Dark Lord,” said Lucius neutrally. “Should I be worried, Draco, that you have given your loyalty to someone who is not your father?”  
  
Draco seized his anger and flung it in the only direction he could. He looked up and spat, “Should I be worried that  _my father_ doesn’t trust me enough, so he has to bind me to work with him and possibly get myself killed when the Dark Lord discovers what he’s done? Or that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me he was free? Which of those is worse?”  
  
Lucius straightened a little. “I never said I didn’t trust you, Draco,” he began, in a tone that was probably supposed to be soothing.  
  
“You only implied it,” Draco said, and looked at the empty doorway. No, there was no trace there of whatever had caused the ache in his body. Well, that in itself was a kind of clue. A promise web would have left a tatter like a spiderweb behind, and some of the others Draco was familiar with would have made the wood look sooty. “Implied it, and did things that implied it.” He faced his father again.  
  
Lucius made a sudden step towards him. Draco didn’t seize his wand, but it was a near thing. And from the way Lucius’s hand closed on his elbow a second later and the way his voice sank into a fervent whisper, perhaps it would have been a good idea to try and hold his father off for a few minutes.  
  
“You have no idea what I am attempting to achieve for our family, Draco. You said a short time ago that I didn’t trust you. A secret ought to be payment for that, shouldn’t it?”  
  
Draco folded his arms and said as calmly as he could, “All I want to know is what the spell will do to me if  _he_ tortures me and I have to deny him secrets. Did you even  _think_ about the point that he’s a Legilimens and can get through my Occlumency?” He felt sweat break out beneath his arms just thinking about that, even though he knew Harry wouldn’t use Legilimency. “What happens  _then_?”  
  
“The spell won’t punish you for information that’s forced from you,” said Lucius impatiently, waving one hand. “Only information that you try to volunteer.” While Draco was opening his mouth to make a point about how fucked up that was, Lucius went on speaking, tone hushed and intent. “The secret is what I was hoping to achieve with the Death Eaters before  _he_ arrived. A secret that he will not torture you to retrieve, because he thought I was resurrecting the Death Eaters for his benefit!”  
  
 _That is what Voldemort would have thought,_ Draco had to admit to himself. He tried not to flinch from speaking the name even in his thoughts, and studied his father for a second before he nodded. “That secret would sort of make up for it,” he conceded. “What were you trying to do, Father?”  
  
“I was going to whip them into a series of actions the Ministry would have to notice, then turn them in to the Aurors.” Lucius chuckled gently. “We would then become worthy of notice from the Light again, gain many of our political allies back, and have my sentence lifted. The Malfoy name would be clean once more.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth, and found he could say nothing. He didn’t think that had anything to do with the spell thrumming in the back of his muscles, either. It was the sheer  _audacity_ of the plan, and that Lucius had thought he could do it while keeping his intentions and complicity secret from all the other Death Eaters.  
  
“Do you think they would have cooperated with you?” he asked quietly, not sure what else he should say.   
  
“Of course not, not if they knew the plan.” Lucius gave him a crooked smile. Draco held back a shudder. The smile was crooked partially because of the state of his father’s mind, he thought, and his teeth, not because Lucius had meant it to be charming. “But they would have done as they have always done, committing themselves to stupid actions in the open that would be seen, and that would mean a chance to expose them to the Ministry.”  
  
Draco thought of other questions he would have wanted to ask, but having Lucius know he’d thought of asking them wouldn’t be healthy at this point. And he  _didn’t_ want to know the answers. He managed to nod and give his father a sickly smile, and he thought that might be enough, because Lucius immediately began talking again.  
  
“I cannot do it now. I cannot risk our Lord finding out.” Lucius stepped close to Draco, looking into his eyes with a yearning gaze that made Draco feel as though someone had tried to light his skin on fire. “I would have included you, my son. I swear that. I would have contacted you once I had the Ministry’s guarantee of protection, and tried to make sure that you were safe along with me. I didn’t know where you were, or I would already have summoned you to my side.”  
  
Draco swallowed, and said nothing. It could just be that Azkaban had affected his father, he assured himself. It was only that. It  _had_ to be only that. If not, though…  
  
Draco had heard of many prices for promise sigils. Some were the victim’s magic. Some were sacrifices made to the force of elder magic that had sponsored the sigil. Some were crimes, or deeds that the bearer of the sigil would have found repulsive before they were marked. And because a certain period of time might elapse between the promise and the payment, Draco knew it could conceivably be years before he found out what Lucius had promised to make his escape.  
  
But if not, then Draco was afraid the price was his father’s sanity.  
  
“Draco? Do you believe me, that I would have tried to include you, to shelter you?”  
  
Silence wasn’t good enough as an answer, then. Draco nodded, hesitated once more, and extended his hand in silence. Lucius clasped it, and fastened his fingers around the spot on Draco’s wrist that corresponded to the one on his own where he had the sigil. Draco tried not to think that was a bad sign.  
  
“We shall conquer them, together,” Lucius whispered. “The Ministry’s ill-will against Malfoys and Dark wizards, and the Dark Lord. Neither of them shall stand in our way.”  
  
As Draco spoke the appropriate words, trying to sound as though he could agree fully with a man who had used binding magic on him without permission, Lucius’s robe shifted. Draco saw the promise sigil again.  
  
The outer ring of skin had darkened.  
  
Draco swallowed again. His mind sharpened, came into focus.  
  
It wouldn’t be easy, or pleasant, any more than most things had been since Harry started pretending to be the Dark Lord. But he knew what he had to do now.  
  
*  
  
“My Lord? May I see you alone for a moment?”  
  
 _Draco wouldn’t have come up to me like this unless it was important,_ Harry thought, and stood up at once. Draco would have waited, he knew, until he could get Harry alone and speak to him that way. By approaching him now, he was drawing envious stares from the Death Eaters who had nothing better to do than stand along the walls of the dining room and wait for Harry to speak to them.  
  
“Does it concern our plans? Ways to destroy Light wizards?” Harry asked, and let his mouth widen in an eager smile.  
  
“It concerns  _several_ plans, my Lord,” said Draco, and the way his voice hesitated for a second convinced Harry it was at least important. He waved his arm negligently, and the Death Eaters hesitated for a moment, then backed, bowing, out of the room. Harry removed the spells that some of them tried to leave behind, mostly targeted at eavesdropping, and raised a privacy spell of his own before he nodded to Draco.  
  
Draco looked straight at him. “You won’t like this,” he said.  
  
“I rarely do,” said Harry, in an arrogant voice, just in case, and fingered his wand if someone was spying whom he hadn’t noticed.  
  
“You need,” said Draco, and closed his eyes for a second, his legs and knees bracing as though he was about to faint. Then he opened his eyes and went on in a voice so steady Harry was shocked. “You need to force it out of me.”  
  
“What?” Harry stared at him, and lost the tone of Voldemort for a moment. At least his spell would make it so that no one could hear his voice and really pay attention to the slip. “Why?”  
  
“I would tell you if I could,” Draco said, and then gasped a little as if something had shocked him. “You need—you need to do this.” His eyes were wide and fastened on Harry’s as though that would make it make sense.  
  
Harry shook his head. “I’m not going to—”  
  
“You have  _no choice_. I’m  _asking_ you.”  
  
Harry wanted to say that he did have a choice if Draco was asking him; he could always refuse. But Draco was standing there with his eyes fixed steadily on Harry, and Harry clenched his hands and said, “Why?”  
  
Draco gave him a thin, cold smile, and stared at him.  
  
Harry shook his head. “I refuse to torture you.”  
  
“Then—something you should know about—is going to work against you, and I’ve got even less choice than you do about torturing me.” Draco’s voice went sharp and high in the middle of that sentence, as though he’d been about to use different words, and a spell had cut in to force him to use the ones it wanted instead. “That’s all I can say.” He started to turn towards the doorway.  
  
“How severe does it have to be?” Harry asked quietly. “We don’t have Snape here this time to cure  _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
Draco turned back, and looked at him. Harry couldn’t define the feeling in his chest as they traded glances, but he was sure they were both thinking of the spell that had almost killed Draco, and at least Draco better understood his reluctance now.  
  
“Use a spell that will hurt,” said Draco. “I don’t want to suffer pain. But I won’t be able to speak if you use  _Crucio_.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He held up his wand. “Are you sure this is what you need?” he whispered.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Draco’s voice never wavered, and Harry didn’t close his eyes only because that would interfere with aiming his wand, and he never wanted to cast something like this again. He took a deep breath and whispered, “ _Dolor_.”  
  
And Draco fell to the floor, screaming.


	25. Under His Wand

The pain that thundered through him was cruel and clear and bright, tearing through things that felt somewhat like his muscles and somewhat like a web in his mind. Draco screamed, and felt a barrier in the back of his throat break with his screams. He was doing—he was doing something that he wasn’t supposed to—he was—  
  
He was writhing on the floor and reaching out with his hands towards Harry, who stood in front of that throne-chair he had made for himself, his eyes locked on Draco and his face pale. “Please!” he screamed. “Please! I’ll tell you what you want to know!”  
  
The pain cut off at once. Harry was on his knees next to him in the next moment, dragging Draco around so that Draco’s head rested in his lap. Draco caught his breath, mind sprinting to the fact that Death Eaters might come back and watch them, and Harry’s cover as the Dark Lord could be blown in the next moment.  
  
But that Harry would even risk blowing that cover, when he had been so conscious of it before and willing to do things that might make Pansy and Astoria or his friends hate him, caused a a soft sweetness grow and blossom in the center of Draco’s chest, tearing and clawing and thundering through his mind like the pain had.  
  
It didn’t blot out all memory of the pain. But it helped, a lot.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and felt Harry take a cloth, or conjure one, and wet it down with water to mop his head. Draco’s lips turned up in a smile for which they didn’t have his permission. “You know that that doesn’t do much when I’ve been through a pain curse?” he whispered. “It’s not like I have a headache or I’ve been blinded by sunlight.”  
  
“I can’t do much to make up for hurting you,” Harry returned quietly. “Let me do this. Let me pretend it makes a difference.”  
  
Draco started and groped for his hand, which Harry let him have, but without stopping the constant soft scrubbing of his brow. “You’re making up for a lot,” Draco said fervently. “Never think you aren’t. I—”  
  
“Hush. You shouldn’t have to reassure me, of all things.”  
  
Draco fell silent. What Harry said made sense, and Draco knew he would have agreed with the words not that long ago.  
  
Which just made the fact that he didn’t agree completely all the more frustrating.  
  
But he lay there and let Harry baby him, and at last Harry murmured, “Now. Before we lose the effect of the pain. What was it that your father didn’t want you to tell me?”  
  
Draco breathed in deeply. He felt as if he had been floating immersed in a pool of warm water, and now he had to step out and back into the cold and cruel real world, all the colder for the heat that had sustained him.  
  
But he mustered his words. Harry was right. They had taken this risk, and Draco wasn’t going to be the one to make it useless. “He bound me with a promise web of some kind, although I didn’t recognize the sensations. And then he told me that he’d intended to encourage the Death Eaters onto greater and more stupid deeds, and eventually turn them over to the Ministry with the implication that he’d been on the Ministry’s side all along. He thought that would clear the Malfoy name.”  
  
Harry was still as stone beneath him for a second. Then, about the time Draco had become concerned and was going to twist around and figure out if he was still breathing, Harry whispered, “So I mucked this up.”  
  
“What?” Draco snorted when he understood the reasoning. It showed how close they were, he thought, that he was able to follow it, because most of the time he would have simply been unable to understand such  _stupid_ reasoning. “No, my father wasn’t going to be a hero and then you messed that up. For one thing, the Ministry would probably never have believed him, not after being twice shut up for being a Death Eater, and not after the way he vanished from Azkaban. Then he would have done something else worse to try and get our good reputation back. And besides—”  
  
He winced as Harry shifted his balance. Harry eased him onto the floor at once and cast a Cushioning Charm that wouldn’t be visible from outside the room. Draco smiled. “Thanks.”  
  
“The same one I used on my arse. That throne is bloody hard.” Harry waved a hand and smiled back at Draco. “You were saying?”  
  
“I doubt the Death Eaters would have gone along with it as well as he thinks they would,” Draco finished quietly. “So no, you didn’t ruin some grand plan that would have resulted in the capture of all Death Eaters. Why should the Ministry have stopped using the Lightfinder even if they’d captured them all? They would think there were Dark wizards still hiding somewhere in the population.”  
  
Harry nodded once, slowly, and then nodded again in a more convinced and convincing manner. Then he chuckled.   
  
“What?” Draco asked, looking around. It didn’t sound like the kind of laughter Harry would have given if anyone else had come into the room and he needed to fool them, but Draco couldn’t see any other reason for it, either.  
  
“You know what’s really messed-up?” Harry helped him sit up and lean against Harry’s chest. Draco closed his eyes as his head spun dizzily. “That I’m the one demanding reassurance from you when you’re not only hurt, I’m the one who hurt you.” He touched Draco’s shoulder once, and then his wand moved swiftly over Draco’s muscles. Draco sighed as soothing coolness flowed through him. Harry obviously didn’t know the Healing spells that would totally cure a pain curse, but he knew both other charms and the fact that you needed to wait to apply them. “Anyway. There wasn’t anything else you needed to tell me?”  
  
 _I can’t really tell him that I want to close my eyes and just lean against him forever,_ Draco thought wryly. “Not really,” he murmured, and did let his eyes slip shut. “My father wants me to plot against you, of course. But you probably already knew that.”  
  
“Get close to me, earn my trust, and then crush me from within?” Harry’s voice was dry. “Yeah, I reckoned. That’s pretty much what Voldemort politics are like, after all.”  
  
Draco sighed out, his voice soft and dry. His hands ached, and his shoulder muscles still trembled, but he honestly felt as if he could fall asleep here and not wake up until someone tried to move him.  
  
 _Although maybe that has less to do with Harry’s magic than with the nature of my bed._  
  
Just as Draco’s eyes popped open in alarm at that thought, Harry touched his shoulder once more and murmured, “Thank you for the warning. Now. I think we’re going to show the others that you’ve been the victim of one of  _his_ mood swings. I tortured you. Then I decided that you could be more useful to me doing something else, and cured you.”  
  
“All right,” said Draco. He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to walk or act without pain for a short while, anyway, so Harry’s idea made more sense than some Draco could have come up with. He reached out and caught Harry’s arm before Harry could completely shift away from him and stand up, though. “You know that you can’t betray what I told you in front of my father, right?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “No, actually, I thought I’d go have a nice chat with him about this.” He shoved Draco gently in the middle of the chest, and then ended up leaving his hand there, while he looked steadily into Draco’s eyes. “I know that. And I appreciate the impulse that you have to want to protect me anyway.”  
  
Draco flushed and tried to turn away. “I…”  
  
“I was the one who tortured you, and you’re still trying to protect me,” Harry insisted, and his voice was thick. “I won’t forget that.”  
  
Draco knew he should probably look away, that nothing good could come out of the look they were exchanging, but their eyes clung anyway. Harry was smiling in an approving way Draco thought he once would have given his soul to see.  
  
But he wasn’t a child at Hogwarts anymore, or the boy who had lain awake at night envying Harry and his friendships, and Ron Weasley’s friendship with Harry, either. He cleared his throat and nodded. “You did what I asked you to do.”  
  
“Still.” Harry’s hand lingered on his shoulder, and Draco couldn’t help it. He shuddered a little with nerves, and Harry at once took away his hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Go and tell the others that I’ve decided to keep you near me for a while. Try to present it as some mark of favor, and at the same time show them that you’re terrified of me. That will make them think I’m keeping you near me for some sort of sinister reason.”  
  
“What do you want me to do when I’m with you?” Draco kept his voice clear of inappropriate emotion, but he couldn’t keep his mind clear of inappropriate thoughts.  
  
“Advise me, mostly,” Harry said wryly. “I still don’t know as many of the Death Eaters as I should. I’m going to ask you to tell me their names, and tell me who they are and what their weaknesses are on a regular basis.”  
  
“You’re dealing with without knowing their  _names_?” A moment later, Draco wondered why in the world that had surprised him. As it was, he only stared at Harry instead of doing something else, and Harry nodded and shrugged.  
  
“It’s worked well so far. Why should someone like Lord Voldemort bother addressing his servants by name if he doesn’t want to?”  
  
There was a trace of bitterness in his voice that made Draco react. He lunged forwards and grabbed Harry’s wrist, glaring at him. “You’re not to speak of yourself like that. Is that clear? You’re not the Dark Lord.”  
  
“And you’re not someone who needs to comfort me all the time,” Harry said back harshly, at once, his arm twisting as if he was going to fling Draco’s hold off. “You’re someone I  _tortured,_ and who’s already done enough!”  
  
They spent some time mutually glaring, and then Draco said, “If I want to do more than this, I will. Are you really going to stop me?”  
  
“No. I need you too much.”  
  
Harry made the admission with his eyes on the floor as if he hated to make it, but Draco’s heart swelled hot and heavy and longing inside him.  
  
“Listen to me,” he said, and poked Harry in the palm of the hand until Harry looked up at him. “If I want to help you, I will. If I want to be with you and pretend to crawl and whimper because that’s what the other Death Eaters will expect, then I  _will._ You understand? You don’t get to dictate what I will and won’t do.”  
  
Harry promptly rolled his eyes at him. “I wouldn’t do that.” But he was smiling, and Draco knew that had been what Harry really needed to hear. He didn’t want to be reminded that he was Voldemort, and as long as Draco had some spirit and could answer him back, he wouldn’t believe it.  
  
“Good,” said Draco, and turned towards the door. “Now, I probably have to go reassure Pansy and Astoria that you didn’t kill me, and disappoint the rest of them with that fact.”  
  
“Good-bye. Thank you, Draco.”  
  
Draco let himself glance back once and nod. If he did more than that, he thought, he would never be able to leave.  
  
*  
  
“My Lord. Here is the information I have been able to uncover about Slytherin’s vault.”  
  
Draco had already made sure Harry knew this woman’s name was Arsinoe Rosier. She held a heavy book in her arms and stood before the throne with her head bowed, but Harry knew enough about body language to watch the curve of her neck. She didn’t look all  _that_ bloody bowed. Harry held back a snort.  
  
“Yes,” he said, and stretched the last s out until he saw Rosier shiver. Then he extended his hand and beckoned. On Parkinson’s advice, he’d glamoured it until it looked longer and paler than before, with shinier nails. He could never physically turn into Voldemort, but making it look as if he was was a good idea, he thought.  
  
Rosier certainly eyed his hand with approval as she passed the book up to him. Harry looked down and didn’t let his face change, although the page of ancient vellum was so yellow and the letters so thick and dark and written in such a strange, curly script that he thought for a second he wouldn’t be able to read it.  
  
Then he saw the trick of the letters, how the e’s looked as if they were turned backwards and the f’s were long and splashy, and he nodded and started reading.  
  
Rosier stood at the foot of the throne with her head bowed, watching him through lowered eyelashes. Harry caught her doing it and stared back, coldly, until her head did dip down completely and she shivered. Harry sneered and went back to reading.  
  
At the end, he slammed the book into his lap. “You told me that you could not have known this tale if you had not found it in an old diary,” he whispered, and waved the book back and forth. “Does this look like a  _diary_ to you?”  
  
“I did the research I begged you to let me do, Lord!” Rosier fell on her knees. “I told you that my cousin found a grimoire, my Lord, and this is that grimoire. I didn’t remember the name, and I had to search hard until I found it. I promise, my Lord, that—”  
  
Harry let her run on until he got bored, and then cut her off with a hard gesture. “Perhaps you told me, at that,” he said reluctantly, and pretended to read some more, although he had absorbed the importance of the words the first time, until he nodded and lowered the book down to his lap. “Arsinoe,” he said, and made the word a caress, so that she trembled and flushed and dared to creep a little nearer to the throne on her hands and knees.  
  
“My Lord?” she whispered.  
  
 _How sickening,_ Harry thought, as he reached out to cup a hand around her cheek.  _I would rather touch Draco this way._  
  
That thought fell into what felt like a dark, quiet pool inside him, and Harry was more than startled to realize it was no exaggeration. He  _meant_ it. He  _would_  rather touch Draco, and he’d welcome the chance to do something more than simply comfort him after a curse that he himself had cast.  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
He didn’t have time to deal with that revelation, which honestly felt almost impudent, as though something had cast it into his head from the outside and was laughing at his inability to deal with it. But Rosier was still here and staring at him from eyes that had gone cloudy with doubt, and Harry needed to assert himself so that he could keep Draco, and his friends, and everyone else, safe.  
  
“You have done well,” Harry whispered. “I shall not forget it.” He drew his wand, having already decided that he wanted to do this to a certain Death Eater. He just hadn’t decided which one until today. Rosier trembled as she watched him hold up the wand, but didn’t scramble away. “ _Serpensortia!_ ”  
  
The spell formed a glittering grey snake with a black throat that turned around and stared up at him with savage eyes. Harry knew what it was, because he had tried hard to conjure that specific serpent. A black mamba. He showed his teeth as he hissed, “ _Stay with this one, attack other people in black robes who attack her, and turn on her if she attacks me._ ”  
  
The mamba immediately became docile, as that snake in the Dueling Club had when he spoke to it all those years ago. It swarmed over to Rosier and swayed beside her, coiling up when she stared at it instead of moving. But when Rosier stumbled back a few steps from his throne, the snake moved with her, head turning back and forth in vigilant guardianship.  
  
“M-my Lord?” She sounded decidedly less eager this time.  
  
Harry waved one hand. “A reward. You have served me well, and I wish for that service to survive. Make sure that you tell the others not to attack you even in a practice duel. The snake will bite anyone who tries.”  
  
Rosier bowed, and held the bow until Harry hissed at her in irritation. Then she ran from the room, her face dazzled and glowing, followed by the black mamba.  
  
Harry sighed as he leaned back on the throne, although he concealed it by placing his fingers together in front of his face as if contemplating an evil plan. Draco had told him Rosier was one of the most intelligent and therefore dangerous of the Death Eaters. At least he had a chain on her in some senses now.  
  
 _And I hate that I have to think that way._  
  
Harry shook his head as he sat up and chopped his hand down, and Fenrir Greyback came into the room by prearranged signal. He would think this way and act this way for as long as he had to, so that eventually neither he nor his friends nor ordinary wizards that the Ministry was grabbing and trying to stuff into the Lightfinder would have to.  
  
“My Lord?” Greyback whined in turn, all but rolling on his back.  
  
Harry concealed his disgust and leaned forwards. “I have a task for you…”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t blame your father. I blame Potter.”  
  
Draco sighed a little. Astoria had been concerned about him, but he thought living under the constant strain of being around Death Eaters was taking its own sort of toll on her. She had retreated back to the books around them as soon as she believed he was all right, and even now she was plunged nose-deep in one particular musty tome, scribbling notes down on the parchment beside her. Draco would have liked to close his eyes and go to sleep for a while. It was the quietest room in the manor.  
  
But Pansy was in front of him, and the look on her face told him sleep was far off for him.  
  
“I was the one who came up with that plan,” Draco told her, trying not to wince. His muscles ached a lot more than they had done when he was with Harry. Harry had done what he could, of course, but Draco would feel that for a while. “If I hadn’t, then he would never have done it, because I wouldn’t have been able to  _tell_ him about it at all! You’re being unreasonable about this, Pansy.”  
  
Of course, telling Pansy that was never a good way to get her to back down from something. She only held his eyes and asked demandingly, “And you think that he won’t do it again?”  
  
“Torture me for information?” Draco gave a little twitch of his head. “Not unless my father binds me with another secrecy spell, and of course I’m going to try and prevent him from doing that.”  
  
“I didn’t mean that.” Pansy folded her arms. “From the way you described it, you had to comfort him when he had one of his little attacks of conscience right after. He puts himself first, even when he  _says_ that he’s doing it for your sake or something. You ought to take him at his word and demand that he pay more attention to you, if he’s really dying to do that.”  
  
Draco had to snort, because Pansy’s analysis accorded so perfectly with what Harry had said. “He apologized for demanding so much comfort, in fact. He said that I was the only one who should need comforting.”  
  
Pansy stared at him.  
  
“Not surprising that you were wrong about him, is it?” Draco added slyly. “I know you don’t like this and you don’t like him, but you should  _know_ that he’s only playing this part because he was forced into it.”  
  
“He was the one who chose to go into the Ministry like an idiot, going after Lethe,” said Pansy, discarding common sense as usual. “And he was the one who chose to go along with the Death Eaters instead of dueling them.”  
  
“Even Potter isn’t good enough to handle five people at once,” Draco told her. “And I don’t regret the decision.”  
  
Pansy looked down. Draco thought for a second she was looking at the floor because he’d managed to subdue her, but then realized that would be foolish to think, and followed her gaze. His hand was trembling.  
  
Draco frowned and folded it on his lap, away from her prying gaze. “Aftershocks,” he told her firmly. “Which is to be expected, all things considered.”  
  
“Mmm.” Pansy’s eyes were half-lidded as she looked at him. “And of course you would defend him.”  
  
Draco laughed, a choked-off sound that seemed appropriate to the circumstances. “We’re in a situation that we can’t survive without him,” he said. “I think making the best of it is what we should do.”  
  
“He promised to protect us, and he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.” Pansy pointed at his hand again. “You just remember that the next time you start to defend him.” And she plopped down on the seat beside Astoria.  
  
Draco sighed and leaned back on the chair, closing his eyes, after all. Pansy didn’t understand. Draco couldn’t blame her, when he didn’t know the nature of the strange connection between him and Potter himself. He just hoped that Pansy wouldn’t try to interfere, which would probably do more harm than good.  
  
And he knew that, strange connection or not, he wouldn’t give this up. He  _couldn’t_.  
  
There was something strangely mesmerizing about the turn of pages and the scratching of quill on parchment. Draco sighed and fell asleep, into dreams where someone held him and whispered to him, and he was the center of attention after all.  
  
But in the dream, he could touch  _back._  


	26. A Moment of Rationality

“My Lord, look at her.” Draco’s voice was a bare breath, tickling Harry’s ear, and he shuddered a little. He wished Draco dared to whisper to him without the title, but he could understand perfectly why he wouldn’t, and he couldn’t blame Draco for refusing to take the risk.  
  
Harry obediently trained his eyes on the woman who stood at the back of the Death Eaters gathered in the dining room, listening to a report by the Lestrange brothers on the Ministry’s defenses. For a moment, he thought she looked familiar, but he was also sure that he’d never seen her properly before. She ducked her head a little as his eyes fell on her.  
  
“What?” Harry asked back, out of the corner of his mouth. It helped that the Lestranges weren’t facing the throne as they spoke, and that most of the Death Eaters were afraid to look at Harry’s face for too long, letting their eyes dart away to fix intently on other things instead.  
  
“She’s trying to look like Bellatrix Lestrange,” Draco breathed. “Her actual name is Elinor Yaxley-Jones—related only by marriage—but she knows that Bellatrix was favored by  _him_ , so she’s trying to look like her.”  
  
Now that Harry took a more critical look, he supposed he could see the resemblance in the wild dark hair that Yaxley-Jones was sporting, with a glint here and there of chestnut that he thought was probably her natural color. Harry stifled both a snort and a sigh. This was another problem that he would need to deal with, but at least Draco had called it to his attention, so he was ready if Yaxley-Jones approached him.  
  
He nodded curtly to Draco, and then leaned forwards and claimed the attention of Rabastan Lestrange as he was about to start speaking again. “Ssssoo,” he drawled. “The Ministry is off-balance. Ssssscrambling. We will never have a better opportunity.”  _Or get another one, probably,_ he had to admit to himself.  
  
The Lestranges turned around and fell on their knees. “My Lord?” Rosier whispered, from near the side, where she stood with her mamba coiled next to her. “What do you mean?’  
  
“To go into the building and get the plans for Lethe, the machine they were trying to build to steal my host body’s magic.” Harry plucked disdainfully at his own sleeve. “I pulled most of it back, into a greater magical core than  _he_ would have been capable of having.” He paused, and the smarter Death Eaters rushed in hastily to fill the silence with applause and cheering. “But there may be some magic still remaining. And I am interested in what the Ministry put so much effort into constructing, in any case. I want it brought to me.” He paused, his eyes on the faces of the Death Eaters who looked to be panting with eagerness. “But only the most prepared and skilled and  _intelligent_ should go in,” he added. “Since the Ministry could torture you if they captured you, and learn about my planssss.”   
  
“If you need someone intelligent, my Lord, I will go.”  
  
That was Parkinson, moving forwards despite the silent messages Harry thought Draco was trying to send her with his eyes, and the almost agonized, pleading expression on his face a second later. But Parkinson probably didn’t see them, because she was too busy glaring at Harry. Harry didn’t want to punish her, but he would have to if she kept doing that.  
  
He could at least punish her in a creative way, though. He nodded. “Then you will go. And you will carry a message to the Light fools who think their friend still exists, as well.”  
  
Parkinson’s face flickered a little. “What? I mean, I thought one of the Lestranges had already brought back a message from them—my Lord.”  
  
“From Longbottom, the  _boy_ ,” Harry said, and let his voice deepen into anger, “who killed my  _snake_.” There were sympathetic winces from all along the room. “You will take this message to Granger and Weasley.”  
  
Parkinson understood what he was about, of course, and for a second Harry thought she would give them away by gaping at him. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded, and Harry decided, from the snickering of the Death Eaters, that most of them thought gaping fit in with Parkinson’s general personality.  
  
“Of course, my Lord,” she murmured. “I will do both missions at once?”  
  
“No,” said Harry, and thought he did a pretty good job of sounding bored as he waved his hand. “You will take the message first. Come to me after the meeting. I will write it. They still think they know  _his_ hand.” It was surreal, sometimes, to be calling himself “him” when he thought of Voldemort that way so often, but he shouldn’t have started this game if he thought the surreality of it would defeat him. “Then come to me to make plans about the mission to the Ministry. For now,  _go_.”  
  
Parkinson bowed and backed out of the room. While the Death Eaters were watching her go, Draco leaned in and breathed softly into his ear, “She thinks that you’re mistreating me and putting yourself above me.”  
  
Harry would really have liked the freedom to say, “Fuck,” or something like it. As it was, he drew in a long, slow, deep, exasperated breath, and shook his head. “The rest of the plans must wait for the return of Greyback,” he told the Death Eaters. “Dismissed.”  
  
It was comical how fast most of them slipped out of the room, bobbing their heads or bowing and holding it in a competition to see who could bow lowest and therefore stay respectful for the longest. Harry just stayed there, impatient and bored both, until he noticed one man wasn’t slipping out of the room.  
  
Lucius Malfoy stood along the back wall and stared at him with a cool look of challenge on his face that made Harry honestly want to gape. Did Lucius think Harry was going to forgive that? Or rather that the Voldemort Harry was playing would forgive it?  
  
 _I have to remember who I am. I have to hold onto myself through him and his Darkness, or this will all have been for nothing._  
  
He felt Draco’s hand briefly grip his arm, grounding him, reminding him of where he was and who he was with. Harry stood up and came down from the throne, while Draco trailed behind him. Harry knew without turning that he would have an uncertain look on his face. He would play as if torn between his father and the Dark Lord, or rather torn between supporting his father openly or covertly. They couldn’t afford, right now, for Lucius to believe that Draco was less than fully on his side.  
  
“Sssso,” said Harry, when most of the Death Eaters had gone and only Lucius and Draco remained. Lucius should have challenged him in front of others, Harry thought, if he was going for an open duel. As it was, Harry didn’t have to work hard to feign the disgust in his voice. “You dare to challenge me, Lucius? You dare to think that you could lead the Death Eatersss better, perhapssss?”  
  
Lucius didn’t move from the wall, save to let a small flicker of a smile cross his lips. “You are not the Dark Lord,” he said.  
  
Harry looked at his neck. “Are you saying that Harry Potter occupies this body?” he whispered, and raised a hand he’d glamoured to be long and pale again that morning. He closed the fingers around Lucius’s throat and squeezed. Lucius bore that without a sign of discomfort for a lot longer than Harry had thought he would, and only squirmed and reached up to curl his fingers around Harry’s when Harry began to seriously press down. “Of course he does,” Harry went on, whispering in a deadly tone. “I leave him partially asleep, mostly awake, and let him watch what I am doing without letting him interfere. I  _love_ the way he squirms.”  
  
Draco gulped behind them. Harry didn’t know if it was because he was listening to Harry imitate Voldemort or because he thought Harry might kill Lucius.  
  
And Harry didn’t want to. He would only kill them if he had to. Gestures like burning off Lestrange’s ear and giving Rosier a viper would do for the moment.  
  
Lucius, though, could change that moment to another one. It was one reason that Harry intended to be  _very_ careful with him.  
  
He squeezed anyway, knowing his eyes were perfectly blank and his expression distant and listening, until Lucius finally gasped out, and Harry opened his hand and let him tumble to the floor. Lucius knelt there with darkening bruises ringed around his throat, and he shook his head and looked up at him a second later.  
  
“You’re not the Dark Lord,” he said, his voice confident, if hoarse from the strangling. “The Dark Lord would never have let me live even this long if I was challenging him.”  
  
“Well, of course I would,” said Harry, and bent towards him with a smile that he thought was friendly enough to make even Lucius squirm, unless he was mad. Of course, Draco  _had_ said that part of the promise sigil’s price might be his father’s sanity…  
  
Harry repressed that part of him, the way he’d had to do with so many of his natural instincts since he’d assumed this role, and said, “Because I like to see  _you_  squirm, Lucius. I wonder what it would take to make you flinch?” He reached out and slowly traced a finger up Lucius’s cheek, aiming for his eye.  
  
Yes, there was a flinch before Lucius could stop himself. He might doubt that Harry was Voldemort, he probably did even more than his words had let on, but he also didn’t disbelieve it enough to hold himself steady and smile when Harry acted as if he might put his eye out.  
  
 _That’s all this is. Acting. Playacting. I can go on without losing myself._  
  
But Harry still shuddered on the inside, and dropped his hand, staring down at Lucius with a boredom that he thought he feigned pretty well. “Don’t push me, Lucius,” he warned him, as gently as possible. “You might think you have the sole secret to defiance in your hands, but I have some of my own.” And he let his flickering gaze pause on Draco for the slightest moment.  
  
Lucius knelt up at once, his head bowed. “Lord, if my son is your most faithful follower—”  
  
“He is,” said Harry. “One of the many.” He gave Lucius a snake-like smile and swept out, beckoning Draco after him with the hand that he thought he’d cast the glamour of long, pale fingers best on. Draco walked after him with his steps stiff. Pride, Harry thought, or feigned pride, and held-in fear. No need to tell Lucius that the fear wasn’t of what he thought it was.  
  
Once Draco was outside the throne room, though, he began to shake and obviously found it hard to stop. “Merlin,” he whispered, once Harry had put up Privacy Charms that linked to the walls around them and would keep people from hearing what they said even close at hand. “Is he going to push you into killing him?”  
  
“I have to have some means of keeping that from happening,” Harry muttered, and his mind was already working. “Have you heard from your mother at all since you arrived here?”  
  
“ _What_?” Draco wasn’t normally slow, though, and Harry thought he only sounded stupefied now because he’d had to jerk his mind in such an unexpected direction. “No. I haven’t—I haven’t heard from her since I had to take shelter at Astoria’s house.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Send an owl to her. I assumed she would show up soon and support your father, but I think we need her here to support you and keep your father under control instead.”  
  
Draco stared at him, and Harry saw a spark of hope in his eyes. He had almost given up on his father, Harry realized abruptly. He had thought Lucius would goad Harry into killing him, and Harry would go along with it because he had to.  
  
 _I want to spare him worry like that. I wish I knew how._  
  
But at least Harry might hope, in his turn, that this measure was some means of doing that. He waited, and Draco finally stuttered and bowed his head a little. “Yes, she would at least restrain him,” he whispered. “And she knows more about promise sigils than I do. He only made me promise to never create one. I don’t know any means of telling what one of them exacts as its price, anything but—what Father told me.”  
  
“Good,” said Harry softly. “Tell her to say that she found us on her own, or from clues Lucius left her.”  
  
Draco gave him a flick of a glance. “I know  _that_ much, Harry. Or at least she will.” He hesitated, squeezed Harry’s wrist once more, and then turned and disappeared into the darkness down the corridor.  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He wondered if it would be too weak, too obvious, if he commanded Astoria to come to his room and sit with him, or went to the library to sit with her. Probably not. The Death Eaters would only think he was fucking her, or doing it as a power play to overcome Draco. Most of them assumed she and Draco were betrothed, and that Draco was weak enough to require her.  
  
Harry sighed. No. Aside from the fact that it might mean Astoria was in danger because she was in his “favor,” it might also encourage them to attack Draco because they would think he was  _fallen_ from “favor.”  
  
 _I hate this,_ Harry thought, and walked on down the corridor with a swagger in his step, his head up. Maybe he was doing the only thing he could, but he wished he wasn’t.  
  
*  
  
Draco watched the owl winging away, and sighed a little. Some of the unquiet pounding in his heart, the pounding that had been there since he saw Lucius open his mouth to challenge Harry, had gone away. He knew his mother would come if there was any way possible for her to do it.  
  
And not much could stand up to his mother when she was in the mood to rescue her family. Not even Voldemort had been able to, since she had lied to him after Harry told her about Draco.  
  
He turned away from the window with a smile, and paused when he saw Fenrir Greyback behind him. He knew Harry had sent Greyback on a mission, but he must have returned. He was standing very still now, and staring at Draco with a distinct expression of glee. Draco stared back, and kept his face as neutral as possible. Greyback  _had_ to know he would be in trouble if he attacked Draco right now, the way things stood.  
  
“You don’t know what I know,” Greyback said, in a singsong tone that gave Draco a sudden flashback to Malfoy Manor and some of the times Greyback had cornered him there. He hadn’t always touched Draco, but being pinned in a corner with a crazy werewolf in front of him had been bad enough.  
  
At least he could make sure that wouldn’t happen now. Draco took a single, springing step to the side, and swung his wand into his hand. Greyback let his tongue loll as if he was the dog he resembled and moved with him, but he wasn’t holding Draco in the corner, and that was enough to calm Draco’s breathing.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco, which made Greyback stop panting like a dog and pay more attention to him than ever. “I don’t know lots of things which you know, I imagine. What it’s like to transform during a full moon, for example.”  
  
Greyback was grinning, at least if any expression he made could be called one. “Would you like to, puppy?” he rumbled, and took a step forwards that resulted in his nails projecting out like claws.  
  
“What do you think  _he_ would say?” Draco asked, shrugging a little and calling up a fiery incantation in his mind. “I wouldn’t be as useful to him if I was a werewolf. And I still have a father here who would also be annoyed with you.” His father had been the one holding Greyback in check, so Draco reckoned it was a good move to invoke his authority, even if most of the time Greyback wouldn’t consider himself bound to obey it with the Dark Lord around.  
  
For a second, Greyback froze, with what looked like most of his face quivering. Then he lowered his head and pushed it slowly towards Draco. Draco, even knowing he was probably safe, found it hard to take his eyes off those yellow teeth.  
  
“Don’t push me, puppy,” Greyback breathed. “Yes, I know lots of things that you don’t know, but  _this_ one concerns my mission for Himself.”  
  
“Then don’t let me hold you back from going to report to our Lord,” said Draco, and nodded graciously down the corridor towards the throne room, while he subtly tightened his hold on his wand.  
  
For a second, it seemed as if Greyback might stay there to argue with him. Then Greyback’s jaw tightened and his hands flexed as if he would stab his nails into the stone. Draco waited some more, heartbeat high and singing in his ears like a mosquito.  
  
Greyback turned and left.  
  
Draco sighed shakily and dared to shut his eyes. Except that he didn’t have the actual pressure of Voldemort, Nagini, or Bellatrix on him, this was too much like his memories of Malfoy Manor for comfort.  
  
 _I have to do something to ease this tension. And my mother won’t be enough. I have to figure out something else._  
  
*  
  
“This was in the Gringotts vault, my Lord,” said Greyback, abasing himself in front of Harry’s throne-chair and holding out a packet of books tied together tightly with what Harry thought was a piece of gold tissue at first. When he touched it, he realized it was an ordinary ribbon, but turned absolutely yellow with age. “You knew it would be, didn’t you? You know so many things, my Lord.” The eyes that rose to his face were filled with mad adoration.  
  
“It was easy enough to know that the grimoire Arsinoe brought me didn’t contain what she thought it did,” said Harry, and gave Greyback a demented grin that brought the adoration even more strongly into Greyback’s eyes. “Yes, it spoke of treasures in a vault that had once belonged to Slytherin, but she was wrong to think it was guarded by serpents and one had to speak Parseltongue to enter it. If she had read more closely, she would have known that.”  
  
“ _I_ could get into it, my Lord,” said Greyback, and gamboled around the room like a puppy who wanted attention.  
  
 _A savage puppy. A mad dog._ Harry held back his words, the impulse to say something like that, and inclined his head. “Or I would not have sent you,” he said, a soft warning tone in his voice that made Greyback straighten up and pay attention. “It was clear from the book itself that the serpents who guarded the vault were not real, and they had to be appeased, but not by Parseltongue.”  
  
“And I contributed my blood, my Lord,” said Greyback. His head bobbed back and forth as though it was on a spring, and someone who stood off to the side was manipulating him. “Just as you said.”  
  
Harry only nodded shortly. Arsinoe  _had_ been mistaken about what the book contained, probably because it had been years since she had read it, and then she had only dared to skim it once before she handed it over to Harry. “Slytherin’s” vault was in truth one that had belonged to Hogwarts, but been forgotten by most Headmasters and Headmistresses just as the Chamber of Secrets had been. As long as the blood of a sufficiently powerful wizard or witch got offered to the serpent guardians, they would let anyone inside.  
  
And whatever else Greyback might be, he was a werewolf, and they were powerfully magical.  
  
Harry spent a moment looking at Greyback, and then said, as if randomly, “Why did you obey Lucius Malfoy, my hound?”  
  
Greyback took what he would probably have seen as an insult from anyone else and transformed it in his own mind, shaking and shivering in pleasure before Harry. “Because he was powerful, and he said that he would bring you back,” he said. “He said that we could get revenge on the Ministry, my Lord, and they would release the secret we needed to resurrect you.” He prostrated himself abruptly before Harry, whining. “But I would never,  _never_ have gone along with it if I knew you were already alive, my Lord! Never.”  
  
 _Ah._ Harry should have known it would be something like that. At least, it would be something like that for Greyback. Lucius had probably made special promises to each of the Death Eaters, and made each of them believe that they would be special and favored and all the rest of it.  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
Harry looked down at Greyback, who was giving him a pouting look now. “Speak.”  
  
“Why did you give Arsinoe a snake, and not me?” Greyback burst out, looking resentful. “Why do you favor Malfoy and Greengrass and Parkinson, and not  _me_? I’m faithful to you, Malfoy was a coward, Arsinoe never even thought you were still alive! Why do you favor _them_?” A second later, he cringed, but his eyes remained on Harry, and there was a pleading in them that could be as dangerous as the devotion.  
  
Harry held in his immediate reaction, which was to curse and ask aloud for patience. But by breathing slowly in and out, he held back the impulse as he had many others since he had come here, and leaned slowly forwards.  
  
“Arsinoe and the others did something that I am not certain I can trust the other Death Eaters to do,” he whispered. “Even you.”  
  
“Research, my Lord?” Greyback jumped to his feet. “I can do research!”  
  
Harry shook his head impatiently. “Not that. I think I cannot trust you to be loyal to me in this body. To see me as your Lord, not Harry Potter.”  
  
“No, no, no!” Greyback was almost babbling, and he’d rolled on his back to expose his belly to Harry. “I can see you that way, my Lord! I know you’re not Harry Potter, even with the scar!”  
  
 _Merlin save me,_ Harry thought. He’d never wanted werewolves fawning at his feet, but it seemed he was to have them.  
  
“Then prove to me that you are loyal to  _me_ and only  _me_ ,” he said. “Pass the test I set you, Fenrir.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord. Anything!” Greyback jumped to his feet and stared at him in excitement.  
  
“Spy on Lucius Malfoy for me,” Harry whispered. “Without letting him know you are doing it. Report his every movement and plan to me, especially if he intends to recruit any of the other Death Eaters to his own side.”  
  
 _There. That will give Greyback and Lucius_ both  _something to deal with that’s not plaguing me._ It didn’t matter if Lucius found out Greyback was spying on him, which he probably would, since Greyback wasn’t the most subtle of people. What mattered was that he would have to do something that wasn’t concentrate on Harry.  
  
Greyback bowed to him with his arms splayed on the ground, his voice breathless with excitement. “Yes, yes, my Lord, I will!” He pranced out.  
  
Harry sighed and leaned back on the throne.  _I hope Narcissa Malfoy gets here soon. Draco could use the support, and maybe she’ll even have some to spare for me._


	27. Calling Up the Troops

Harry spent a moment quietly breathing to himself before he stepped into the dining room. He’d called a general meeting of the Death Eaters to tell them the plan he had come up with once Greyback had delivered those tomes from Slytherin’s vault to him. He knew he could act his way through it. He’d acted his way through plenty of harder things by now, hadn’t he?  
  
But his throat ached as though he’d swallowed something slimy and spicy at once, and his hand trembled. He was only glad that this was the corridor that led to the bedroom he’d been using, so no one except him was here, and no one except him was even allowed to walk down it. The game would have been up in a second if someone else was here.  
  
 _Anyone else except Astoria or Parkinson, who know the truth. Although Parkinson might want to see me go down just so that she and Draco and Astoria could get out of here._  
  
 _And Draco…_  
  
The way he wanted to linger on that thought made Harry shake his head and fling the door of the dining room opened. He had a vague, rustling impression of a lot of people standing to attention as he strode past them and towards his throne.  
  
As he climbed onto the throne, Harry realized that he would have to renew the Cushioning Charm soon. He wondered for a second if Voldemort had ever had to cast one, and then snorted to himself.  _Of course. His head was cushioned by being so far up his arse.  
  
_ But he didn’t have time to do it right now, so he turned around and sat down in view of his watching, “adoring” audience all regal and proper. He wanted to shake his head when he saw the people cringing in front of him. He reckoned that there must be some people—the Dark Lord types—who enjoyed this, and it had to be more common than he thought, since within a few generations there had been both Voldemort and Grindelwald.  
  
But Harry himself wasn’t born for that sort of thing.   
  
He opened his eyes and glared out over the Death Eaters. Some of them were trying to take shelter behind the others. Harry felt his hand curl, and knew he wanted to be holding his wand. But Voldemort wouldn’t have looked threatened by people who were trying to piss themselves, and that meant Harry couldn’t, either.  
  
“We are not all assembled,” he said, and looked up and down the rows. “Where are the Malfoys?”  
  
“Here, my Lord.”  
  
It wasn’t Draco’s voice, or even Lucius’s, that responded. Harry turned to face the doors, trying to make sure that he didn’t scramble or spin around on the throne. He had to look as though he had expected this, as though nothing could challenge his supreme imperturbability.  
  
But it was hard not to feel his heart lift when he saw Narcissa Malfoy standing on the threshold of the dining room. He nodded, and waited until she had come to the middle of the room before he mused aloud, “Some would say I should punish the woman who told me that Harry Potter was dead when he had not fallen before my wand in reality.”  
  
There was a tense, breathless hush. Narcissa stopped walking and bowed her head, but in such a way that Harry didn’t take it as cowering. He didn’t think anyone else did, either. Perhaps no one else knew her that well, but even strangers ought to have been able to see that she was willing to die for her family.  
  
“But since the survival of this body led to a survival of a shard of my soul, and allowed me to return to lead you to glorious victory,” Harry finished, waving his hand, “then I shall let you live. This once,” he added, and grinned in a ghastly way at Narcissa.  
  
Narcissa looked up at him, so calm and steady that Harry knew she knew the truth. He didn’t think Draco—who stood behind his mother looking as if he’d like to use her as a shelter for the rest of his life—would have told her, but then again, she was brighter than most of the people who had sworn their lives to Voldemort’s service. She could have figured it out.  
  
Lucius, behind both Draco and Narcissa, was trying to look as if he was also pleased. But Harry could see straight through him. He smothered a smile and spread his hands.  
  
“We are  _all_ here,” he said, ignoring the fact that Parkinson was still on her mission to deliver his messages to Ron and Hermione. “We will speak now.” He reached out and picked up the ancient books and thumped them down on the arm of the throne. They made an impressive thwacking noise, he’d admit. It was probably the only advantage of making the seat out of stone.  
  
“What are those, my Lord?” It was Greyback, sounding outrageously pleased with himself and presumably wanting Harry to tell everyone about the part he had played in fetching the books back. Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but it took a lot of the patience that he had learned at the Dursleys’.  
  
“They are the books that Salazar Slytherin left on forming a machine similar to the Lightfinder,” he said, and spread his hands out and clutched the arms of his throne. “But unlike the Lightfinder, it identifies  _Dark_ wizards. And it can make them other than they are.” He let out a cackling laugh that he’d been practicing in his quarters, and saw most people other than Draco and Narcissa shudder. “It can make the Light into the Dark, and the Dark into the Light.”  
  
“Why would we want to do that last one, though, my Lord?” It was Rosier, her mamba swaying beside her and looking critically at the back of her leg. She didn’t seem to notice, though, with her eyes focused on Harry’s face. She seemed to have decided that his giving her a snake meant she could question him.  
  
“For the same reason that we wish to destroy the Muggles,” said Harry, and parted his lips, and laughed crazily enough that most of them shuddered. Narcissa didn’t; Lucius didn’t; Greyback didn’t. Harry thought all of them had different reasons for it, too. “Because  _we have the power._  Dark wizards shall not be Dark if I say they shall not. They shall be defined by me, and destroyed by me.”  
  
He stood up and looked around the room, collecting their eyes, gathering them, drawing them. “Are you going to deny me my right?” he asked, and his voice sounded like the hiss of a sword through the air. The mamba beside Rosier swayed up and down as though someone was dangling it at the end of a string. “My  _desire?_ ”  
  
“My Lord, no, my Lord,” and even Rosier knelt.  
  
Harry nodded, and turned back to the books, which really did explain what he had said they did. Of a sort. “Then I will need the ingredients that we require to form the machine. You will go and seek the wool of a mountain sheep, both you Lestranges. Rosier, I require hen’s teeth. Yaxley-Jones, you will have the scales of a Hungarian Horntail in your hand before a week is out, or  _I will know why._  Lucius…”  
  
Lucius tensed his muscles, as if getting ready to reject the suggestion, and anxious to show off why. Harry looked at him for long, silent seconds, and then tossed his head back and laughed.  
  
“You will bring me a finished potion,” he said. “A Pepper-Up Potion. That shouldn’t be beyond your powers.”  
  
Lucius’s teeth ground; Harry could see that from the movement of his cheeks, although he couldn’t hear it from here. Draco looked at Harry with eyes that seemed to dart daggers, as if asking what he was doing in antagonizing his father. Narcissa was the one who saved the situation, moving forwards and taking her husband’s arm while giving Harry a cool look.  
  
“We will attain the potion, my Lord,” she said.  
  
“Excellent, my Narcissa,” said Harry, and he hissed her name, and saw her shudder. He made himself turn away. He would have to meet with Draco later, in privacy, and hope that he could explain what he might need to explain to Narcissa, and accept Harry’s apology for the way he had behaved, as well.  
  
“Now,” said Harry, and flourished the piece of parchment on which he’d written down other instructions, “to business for the rest of you.”  
  
*  
  
“Does he know what he is doing?”  
  
Draco swallowed. He and his mother were alone, for the first time since she had arrived. His mother had taken one look at his father and become the perfect society hostess that Draco remembered from scattered evenings before the war, when he had been deemed old enough to sit up and join his parents’ guests. She had consoled Lucius, and listened to his plans without a change of expression, and touched Draco only rarely, even when he wanted to lean against her and close his eyes and say nothing.  
  
But now, his father, probably fully contented with the knowledge that his wife was on his side, had gone off to brew the potion Harry had requested, and Narcissa was pacing back and forth across Draco’s bedroom.  
  
“ _Answer_ me, Draco.”  
  
And that particular tone made Draco want to cower and whine that his bedroom was clean, honestly. He couldn’t help a glance around at the gloomy walls, although this manor would never be theirs. He shook his head and concentrated on his mother.   
  
“He knows what he hopes to do,” he said. “That’s all I can say for sure.”  
  
Narcissa cursed and turned to lean against the wall herself, her arms folded, scowling at the hem of her robes. Draco swallowed. He had thought having his mother with him would reassure him, and that part was  _somewhat_ working, but when she looked so tired and drained herself, it made his skin prickle with unease.  
  
“Then he intends to play the Dark Lord until—what?” His mother turned her hand, palm up, and Draco could imagine the time flying past her, faster and faster, until her skin was scrubbed clean. “What does he hope to accomplish?”  
  
“He hasn’t told me everything,” Draco hedged, and then winced when she looked at him, the stare that said she wasn’t any more impressed with his excuses than with Lucius’s excuses for taking on the promise sigil. “All  _right_. What I know is that he wants to build a sort of Lightfinder that will reverse the irrational fear that the original one sprayed out all over people when Blaise blew it up.”  
  
“That was  _Blaise_?” Narcissa began, and then shook her head. “I think we should stick to one topic for the moment. So Potter intends to save the wizarding world? I don’t know why that surprises me,” she added, with a sigh, and turned to Summon the small trunk she’d brought with her. Draco wasn’t surprised, either, when she took out a dusty bottle of wine and two crystal glasses. “He does realize that the Light wizards might reject him even if he does that?”  
  
“I don’t think he gives a shit about that anymore,” Draco began, thinking of the way that Potter was trying so hard to cling onto some sanity and force back the specter of turning into the Dark Lord for real.  
  
“ _Draco_.”  
  
Draco blinked and stared at his mother, only to realize after a moment why she was staring at him primly. He ducked his head and shrugged. “Sorry, Mother. It—it’s an easy habit to fall into when I don’t think about it.”  
  
“Not a habit that you’re going to fall into when I’m about,” Narcissa said crisply, and poured some wine into the glasses. “And what do you think he wants, if not to have the Light accept him? Saving the wizarding world would seem a good way to accomplish that.” She judged the level of liquid in the glasses for a moment, and then sniffed and held out one of them to Draco. Draco accepted it and tried not to gulp it too fast. His mother wouldn’t care for that any more than she did for his language.  
  
Absurd as that focus on refinement was, in a way, he found himself glad that she was here to make him care about it.  
  
“I think he does want to save the world,” said Draco, and sipped carefully from the glass as his mother nodded in stiff approval at him. “But he doesn’t want to do it because he wants to be accepted by Light wizards. He wants to do it because it’s the right thing to do. To him,” he added, when he saw Narcissa’s eyes narrow a little.  
  
“I thought he might have carried you along with him.” Narcissa slowly paced to the side, and Draco saw her studying him the way she had studied Lucius when she knew that his wrist bore a promise sigil. “I am already dealing with one man I love who appears to have gone mad. I do not want to deal with two.”  
  
Draco turned calmly to face her, the way he would have someone pacing around him about to start a duel, and saw her eyebrows rise. “I know it’s hard to believe, Mother,” he said, and held her eyes and willed her to believe him. “But I do think that Harry is doing something that will allow all of us to survive. That is, him, and Pansy, and Astoria, and me. You, too, now that you’re here.”  
  
“The others?” Narcissa placed her glass down on a table of wood that had probably been beautiful when it was regularly polished and dusted and taken care of. “Your father?”  
  
Draco bit his lip, and didn’t answer.  
  
“How did he bring you along with him?” Narcissa whispered. “What happened to commit you to the Light?”  
  
“Not the Light,” Draco said at once, shaking his head. He knew it  _would_  be very hard to ask for her help if she thought that he had changed his allegiances to match those of the Ministry who had arrested Father and hunted him and her. “To Harry. He’s a Dark wizard, and he’s fighting for rights like mine. I reached out to him, and he committed himself to my cause.”  
  
Narcissa eyed him, and then picked up her glass again. “A strange way to go about it, pretending to be the Dark Lord.”  
  
“The Death Eaters showed up,” Draco said. “And, well, I’m afraid I’m the one partially to blame for that. It was the only way I could think of to stop them from attacking us. And Harry went along with it. He plays it brilliantly, don’t you think?”  
  
He couldn’t stop the note of pride creeping into his voice, despite the way he knew his mother would stare at him—and the way she did, before a faint, reluctant smile touched her mouth. “You have found someone to follow,” she breathed. “The way your father did.”  
  
“Not as blindly as Father did, I hope.” Draco inclined his head. “But yes. I do think he’ll save us.”  
  
“Afterwards? When you have to go back to a wizarding world that won’t be sympathetic to anyone who was playing the Dark Lord?” His mother’s fingertips were tapping rapidly against her glass now.  
  
Draco held her eyes and tried as hard as he could to radiate sincerity, though he wasn’t sure if she believed him. “I think that he’ll have a plan for that, too. He already has one to try and cure the irrational fear, I told you. And he’ll be able to tell the whole truth when the deception isn’t necessary anymore. I don’t think the Ministry and the Light will welcome him, but I think they’ll leave him alone.”  
  
“And the people who supported him and helped him,” Narcissa ended. “The ones who were with him before he began to play this part of a Dark Lord.”  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
Narcissa swallowed and looked away. Only when he watched his mother’s throat bob did Draco understand some of why she was acting as stern as she was. She was  _afraid._ Desperately afraid. Draco reached out and caught her hand.  
  
“You may have saved our family,” Narcissa whispered. “You may have saved our reputation and our standing in the world after this.” She hesitated, then added, “But I’m afraid it’s too late for your father.”  
  
Draco shut his eyes. “Did you recognize the promise sigil? What is it? What did he promise, and who did he promise it to?”  
  
“The primal forces of magic,” said his mother, and her voice was dull. “It would be more appropriate to say that he promised himself to a  _what_ than a  _who_.”  
  
“I still need to know what it was,” said Draco. “I thought…his sanity, the way he’s been slipping.”  
  
Narcissa turned slowly around, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. I recognize that design of promise sigil, you see. From a portrait that once hung in Grimmauld Place, until it grew to frighten us too much and they took it away. One of my ancestors made the same promise, and killed himself when the time for the payment came due, sending his essence fleeing into the portrait to try and escape the bargain. But the bargain ended with what was promised anyway, and he faded from what he had been.” From the dull, flat tone of his mother’s voice, Draco doubted she was thinking about fading like a ghost, and his heart gave a single pound.  
  
“What did he promise?” he whispered.  
  
“Himself.”  
  
“How is that different from his sanity?” Draco almost barked out the words in his intensity, and only realized it when he saw his mother’s eyebrows rising. He sighed and swallowed some more of the wine. “I’m sorry, but I’ve worried and worried about this, and wondered if there’s something we can do to prevent his sanity from slipping away, and now you’re doling out the information so slowly…”  
  
“I was trying to cushion the blow,” said Narcissa, her voice softening. “I should have realized that it was impossible to do so. No, Draco. We cannot stop it. He has sacrificed his sense of being. I would say his soul, but he will not remain alive but without a soul if the sigil takes him, the way he would after a Dementor’s Kiss. There is nothing left of someone who has that sigil on his wrist.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes. “Why did he do it?” he whispered. “Did he think that he would be able to accomplish what he wanted before the magic took him?”  
  
“Probably.” His mother was watching him with a depthless gaze when Draco looked at her again. “Or perhaps he simply thought the goal worth it. What was the goal?”  
  
Draco swallowed. “He meant to restore the Malfoy name by turning the Death Eaters into the Ministry.”  
  
“And then your Potter interfered.” Narcissa shook her head. “I fear that he will try to destroy Potter as soon as he realizes how much he’s cost him.”  
  
“I know,” Draco said. “I told Potter to be careful, but he doesn’t seem to have much choice if Father openly antagonizes him. He already had to almost strangle him once. Well. He  _did_ strangle him.” He looked at his mother, feeling as though he was swaying on the edge of a cliff in a high wind. “What are we going to  _do_ , Mother? Can we do anything, if this promise sigil claims what you say it does?”  
  
“It does.” Narcissa touched the glass of wine as though she would find an answer in its crystal. “And I don’t know, Draco. I fear not.”  
  
They stood there in silence, and finished the wine only slowly. Draco felt the sickness building and brewing in his stomach, and when Narcissa excused herself with a murmur to go to Lucius, Draco knew where he had to go.  
  
*  
  
Harry looked up with a start as someone knocked on his door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he had badly needed this time to rest alone and recover some sense of himself instead of performing a part for the Death Eaters.  
  
But if he had to play that role, then he had to. He straightened up and called in his hissing voice, “Who dares to disturb the repose of the Dark Lord Voldemort?”  
  
“My Lord.”  
  
It was Draco’s voice, and it was dead. Harry opened the door at once and pulled him inside. Let anyone who was watching think that meant Harry was angry at him. No one else was there, when Harry had shut the door, to see him put his hands on Draco’s shoulders and straighten his robes.  
  
Draco’s eyes were so flat that Harry flinched when he looked into them. Draco said without preamble, “My mother recognizes the promise sigil. My father is giving up everything he is to primal forces of magic in order to restore our family name.”  
  
Harry felt his head and his heart ache with pity. He opened his arms without thinking, and Draco moved into them and leaned his head against Harry’s collarbone. He went on murmuring, his words feverish.  
  
“She said that she knew an ancestor of hers who made the same promise, and tried to go into a portrait where he thought the magic couldn’t follow. It came after him, and he was claimed. He just  _faded._ ” Draco’s hands were clutching at Harry’s back hard enough that Harry thought his nails would tear through the cloth of the thin shirt Harry wore. “What am I going to do? I thought I’d lost him when he was in Azkaban, but now—”  
  
“I’ll do something,” Harry told him. “Anything I can. Maybe the Lightfinder we’re going to build could even help.”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Draco gave a dry laugh. “No, I never thought I would lose him at all, even though I know of course he would die sometime.” He shuddered in Harry’s grasp. “But I never thought it would be like this.”  
  
Harry held him closer. He didn’t know what to say, but perhaps the closeness and the warmth was all the comfort Draco needed for right now. His gasps were at least slowing, his heartbeat no longer shuddering through him.  
  
He waited, and waited, and still Draco didn’t seem inclined to let go of him.  
  
Then he twisted his head to the side, and his eyes were large and liquid and pleading, and Harry closed his own eyes, because he knew that, if one more moment passed with him meeting Draco’s gaze, he would do something he would regret. Well, regret in that it wasn’t the right time for this. They were in the middle of a deadly game. He couldn’t afford to think about what he would do if they were free.  
  
 _Maybe not much different._  
  
They stood in silence, clinging together, and Harry did nothing but hold Draco, and the moment passed.


	28. Walking the Edge

Harry slowly unfolded the note that Parkinson had slipped to him in front of the small Death Eater assembly that morning when she returned. She'd bowed her head in something like humility as she did it and then rose, but her gaze remained on him. Harry didn't need the raised eyebrow to tell him when someone was skeptical.  
  
His own skepticism was with him at all times, eating away at the confidence he needed to play Voldemort. He would be surprised by now if he recognized anything else.  
  
Which meant he waited a moment longer before reading the note, even though he was alone now and didn't intend to admit anyone who knocked on the door this time.   
  
_Dear Harry,_  
  
_I don't know what you think you're doing. We'll trust you. We have to. And I think that you know what you're doing, but I'm afraid you might be running so much on instinct that you'll never notice the moment when your instincts fail you._  
  
Hermione's sharply slanted writing gave way a moment later to Ron's more rounded letters.  
  
_I do trust you, mate. It's just hard to know what part we're supposed to play in this. Distractions? Allies? I hate to think of you all alone in the midst of the Death Eaters with only Malfoy and Parkinson to back you up._  
  
Harry almost muttered aloud that they were forgetting about Astoria, and then shook his head. Of course they were, and _he_ was becoming too addicted to the dangerous habit of talking aloud to himself if he thought it a necessary thing to say.  
  
Hermione's hand took over again. _But we'll do as you asked. Right now, it's pure chaos here. Everyone who was there when someone blew up the Lightfinder is crazy, shaking in fear. That includes Kingsley, and that means no one's really leading the Ministry right now. The Wizengamot is trying to get together and do something, maybe declare martial law, but it's failing. Some of their members were there the day the madness struck, too, and they can't do anything without a clear voting majority._  
  
Harry nodded slowly. So they had some time, and for the same reason he had thought they would. But it wasn't anything except a small window. He would have to do what he could with his reverse Lightfinder and Lethe in the meantime.  
  
_So small a time._  
  
Harry felt like clawing at his temples, to try and let the chaos swirling inside his head out. But he wouldn't. He simply put the letter down, and sighed a little, and then burned it with a flick of his wand.  
  
As it flickered and disappeared into the flames, he locked his eyes on the last words, written in Ron's scrawl.  
  
_We love you, mate. Don't trust Malfoy_.  
  
Harry gave a dry chuckle. That advice would have been more useful with a first name attached to it.  
  
*  
  
"You wanted to see me, Father."  
  
Draco did his best to keep his voice calm and blank, the way he had tried to sound when Lucius would call a much younger Draco to his study to discuss some minor transgression. Lucius glanced at him over his shoulder as if he was returning to and discounting those memories at the same time, then jerked his head towards an empty chair in front of him. His father had one of the best rooms in this disused house, Draco had discovered, with furniture that didn't look scrounged. "Sit."  
  
Draco sat down at once, bowing a little from the waist. Lucius still ignored him, staring at the wall that _didn't_ have decorations on it, that was only a plain grey wall. His fingers rubbed the promise sigil on his wrist.  
  
Draco winced and waited. Lucius finally turned to face him, stared for one moment as though he had forgotten why he'd summoned Draco, and then demanded abruptly, "Were you the one who called Narcissa?"  
  
"Yes."   
  
Lucius's face shifted, but it was hard to trace what the movements were or meant. Draco was reminded of mud shifting in a bog. "I didn't want her here. I intended to present my triumph to her--our triumph--as something finished, something _done_. I don't need her interfering."  
  
_Yes, his mind is going. Or his self. Whatever the difference between them is, I don't think that it matters that much._ Draco took a deep breath, shivering. _He would never have said something like that before._  
  
"Yes, but I needed her," Draco explained. "I'm not as strong as you, Father, not as independent." He felt a brief burn of resentment like bile down his throat. Lucius would never understand what Draco's strength really was, even if he came back from the promise sigil. "I still need my mother."  
  
Again, his father looked at him as if startled. "You're eighteen years old, Draco. You shouldn't."  
  
Draco clasped his hands in his lap and thought about the way Harry had held him the other day, and about the way his mother had explained things and how she didn't see much hope but still didn't intend to give up. Those were his sources of strength. They wouldn't falter, no matter how much he might grow weak and small and hurt. "Maybe I shouldn't, Father," he agreed. "But I do."  
  
Lucius examined him again with more interest than he'd shown since Draco arrived here. "Why? Didn't I raise you the way I should?"  
  
"I think you did a good job," Draco said. _Not as good a job as you should. Did you never think about what pledging yourself and your family to the Dark Lord would mean?_ But those were hardly accusations Draco could pull out now. "But...I am scared about what's going to happen to our family."  
  
Lucius relaxed. "Ah. Concern about our family and our reputation, which is stained and scarred after the Dark Lord's work on it. That is different from mere concern about your own life." He gave Draco a savage glance. "Do not forget it."  
  
_As if the Dark Lord is the only reason our family's reputation is ruined._ But Draco calmed himself down through a warm memory of Harry's arms around him, and nodded. "Was that the question you wanted to ask me, Father?"  
  
"I have another." Lucius's voice lowered. "Have you noticed that Fenrir Greyback is following me?"  
  
"No," said Draco, startled. He hadn't seen Greyback close at hand since their meeting right after he'd sent the owl to his mother. "I haven't run into him."  
  
"He is." Lucius's voice dropped into a hiss. "I know what he's about. Trying to displace me from the Dark Lord's favor. Trying to pretend that I'm a disloyal Death Eater and I deserve to have my throat slit for it."  
  
_Well, you are disloyal_. Draco was a little surprised at himself for having such thoughts, and he feared that his expected response was late. "That's terrible, Father. But are you sure it's Greyback doing something on his own? It sounds like too subtle a plan for him."  
  
Lucius sniffed. "Who else would have told him to do it? The vast majority of them--before the Dark Lord appeared, I mean--were only working with Greyback because I forced them to do so. They would not make plans with him. They would not willingly admit him into their company or give him guidance and direction."  
  
Draco sighed. He felt as if the tension of being possibly discovered by the Death Eaters was pressing down on him with all sorts of sharp edges, but what his father demanded was simply a huge, flat, smooth burden crushing him down. "Father, I don't know. I don't know Greyback or what you were doing here well enough to talk about that." He put his hands on his knees and leaned earnestly forwards, staring into his father's eyes. "Have you tried talking to Mother about it? She spent more time around Greyback during the war than I did. Perhaps she could figure it out from her knowledge of him."  
  
Lucius's hands clenched until Draco thought they would crack something open. "I don't want her involved. I still hope to--to make her understand what I am trying to do."  
  
"What are you trying to do, Father?" Draco whispered. "You can't forward the same plan that you were going to do now that the Dark Lord's taken over. What can you do on your own, or just with me?" He felt he had to add that last because of the way Lucius's eyes were blazing. "Let her talk to you. Let her help."  
  
Lucius seemed to be wavering for a moment. He turned around and stared up the high wall at the window in it, which was gauzy with dirt. Draco held his breath for a moment.  
  
Then Lucius turned around and shook his head fiercely at Draco. "Your mother would think there are more important things to recover than our reputation."   
  
_Like our lives?_ Draco thought, but he didn't get the chance to figure out a way to ask that wouldn't infuriate his father, because Lucius leaned in and plucked at his wrist with impatient fingers.   
  
"I have only one chance if I want to rescue our reputation and everything else important for our family that the Ministry now holds," Lucius breathed. "I must bring down the Dark Lord. Prove myself the new Harry Potter. Prove that he's a fake." He laughed, his voice wavering in and out of a breathless cadence that made sharp knives scrape up Draco's spine. "He isn't the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is dead. Break his hold over the Death Eaters, and they can still do something stupid that delivers them into Ministry hands."  
  
Draco swallowed as hard as he could, and reached out to take his father's hands, squeezing when Lucius's attention started to drift away from him. "Can you do that before the price for your promise sigil falls due, Father?"  
  
"Oh, yes," said Lucius, and for a second he rubbed Draco's wrist and smiled at him. "So caring for me. You're so caring for your old father, Draco."  
  
He half-sounded as though he was on the verge of tears. Draco had _never_ heard him sound like that, even during the war. He stiffened his shoulders and tried to respond as lightly as he could. "Well, you won't let Mother be. So I have to be."  
  
"She can care. She may not interfere." Lucius's voice descended into a growling harmonic strain. "I won't let her interfere, Draco."  
  
His hands were clutching Draco's back now, nearly hard enough to break his finger bones. Draco held in a gasp of pain and asked simply, "So you have a plan to take down the Dark Lord?" He let his voice fall without effort. He _was_ fearful of what his father might do, and if it wasn't fear of the Dark Lord, well, he doubted Lucius would be able to tell the difference.  
  
"Yes." Lucius had finally let go of his hands, and got up now to pace feverishly back and forth across the room. Although the only larger room was the one Harry had taken for his own, Draco shrank back. It _did_ rather feel as if the room was too small to contain both a pacing Lucius and himself. "If he is Potter, there are lures he will not be able to resist, actions he will commit that the Dark Lord never would."  
  
"Oh." Draco tried to put as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could. "So you're going to try to capture one of the Weasleys and offer them up for torture?"  
  
He hated giving his father ideas, but at least that way, he'd be able to warn Harry.  
  
"No," said Lucius, and his mouth curved in a smug little smile. "Have you noticed that he hasn't killed anyone yet, Draco? Or summoned a snake to feed us to? I intend to get rid of my Greyback problem and my Potter problem in the same instant."  
  
*  
  
"Yes. This could work."  
  
Astoria's voice was so soft that Harry had to lean towards her to hear. He sighed in relief. "Then you think that the ingredients I told the Death Eaters to fetch should be all we need?"  
  
Astoria looked up at him, nodding. Her eyes were soft, too, and serious, and she made a hard gesture at the books beside her, as if calling them to be witnesses to her words. "You'll still need to perform the spell that I told you about, the one that'll bind your magic to the new Lightfinder and make it possible for you to control the results that it produces."  
  
Harry nodded in silence. Astoria and Parkinson now thought the spells and Transfiguration that had produced the original Lightfinders needed to be controlled by the desires of a powerful wizard. What that wizard wanted the Lightfinder to discover was what it _would_ discover. Because there hadn't been only a single powerful wizard at the creation of the last one, it had simply reached out and latched onto the general desires floating around it in the room. If those desires centered on the supposed difference between Light and Dark...  
  
"I wonder if we'll ever understand exactly what the last Lightfinder showed," he muttered.  
  
"Why would we?" Astoria's smile was faint, but there. "I don't think the people making it knew what they really _believed_ the difference between Light and Dark was. Other than as a matter of magical affinity, it's always been incoherent."  
  
The books had certainly convinced Harry on that subject. There were certain kinds of spells that some wizards could cast better than others, but the constant shifting back and forth on the subject because of law and custom had destroyed his notion that there were really sharp differences between them that always stayed the same.  
  
The door of the library opened, and Draco came in.  
  
Harry tensed, aware too late that if it _hadn't_ been Draco, his sitting this close to Astoria with a hand planted on the library table in front of her could be taken entirely the wrong way. But Draco didn't appear to notice it at all. He gave Astoria a swift smile, and Harry a different look as he stopped in front of him.  
  
_I'm getting careless,_ Harry reprimanded himself as he settled back and waited for Draco to say what he'd obviously come to say. _I shouldn't act like I'm safe, or that anyone else who's faithful to me is, either._  
  
"My father has noticed that you've set Greyback to spying on him," Draco murmured. "And he has also noticed that you haven't killed anyone yet, or severely tortured them. He thinks that he can convince the others you aren't the Dark Lord by exposing your unwillingness to do that."  
  
"And get rid of Greyback, too?" Harry didn't think Draco would have bothered mentioning Greyback unless he had something to do with Lucius's plan. He reached up and put a hand on Draco's shoulder as he sat down heavily in the chair next to Harry.  
  
"Yes." Draco rubbed his forehead with his hand, as if he, too, had a scar there that provided a direct link to Voldemort. "But he wouldn't tell me what it was. I don't know whether he suspects me of helping you, or simply wants this to be a _surprise_."  
  
Harry tightened his grip on Draco. He thought perhaps the worst thing about Draco's situation was that he _did_ still have his father, not dead or Kissed or locked up in Azkaban, but it made no difference. He was still on the opposite side of a struggle from that father, still separated and distant from him.  
  
"Thank you for telling me," Harry said quietly. Astoria was gathering up the books and papers she spent most of her time with, and slipping out of the room. Harry knew he should tell her to stay, that she might be able to help them or at least comfort Draco in ways he couldn't, but the words wouldn't come to his tongue. "This has to be hard on you."  
  
Draco blinked as though listening to a distant music. "I suppose it is. It's--I mostly think about the promise sigil and what's going to happen when it claims my father. Or when the _thing_ he made that promise to shows up demanding payment."  
  
He blinked again, but this time, his gaze had come back to the present, and was focused on Harry's face. He leaned forwards. "It hurts," he whispered. "More than the thought of him trying to turn against me, the thought of losing him hurts."  
  
His hands found the front of Harry's robe and tightened in it. "The pressure's worse than the pressure of performing for the Death Eaters. Because my father knows me better, and he's more likely to notice a slip-up."  
  
His hands were so tight now that the robe collar was twisted around Harry's throat, and he was having trouble breathing. But more than that, all he could think about was the lack of a plausible lie that would save Draco should someone else walk into the room and see them. There was no Death Eater who would accept that Draco somehow had the _right_ to choke Lord Voldemort.  
  
Harry reached out and gently took Draco's left hand off his collar, then maneuvered him so they would look like Harry was in a more commanding posture if someone came through the door. "It _is_ overwhelming," he agreed quietly. "But I think you need to tell your mother, and she can help us figure something out."  
  
Draco stared at him with startled, wide eyes. Harry blinked. "Didn't you already tell your mother?" He had assumed Draco would go to her before coming to him.  
  
"No," Draco mumbled. "I just--I don't think he would have told her, either. He said that he didn't want her to know what he was planning to do with the Death Eaters until it was accomplished and he could lay it at her feet. I was--I didn't know what to do except come to you."  
  
Harry's heartbeat was so hard that it made him wince. He thought they were sliding back towards a dangerous moment, the sort of thing that would be hard to recover from.  
  
"Well, he might not tell her, but she might still be able to help us," he said soothingly. "And it'll probably take him a while to prepare his plot. We have time to come up with something to counter it."  
  
Draco's hands tightened on his collar and Harry's own hand again. Harry winced, but met his gaze squarely. He was scared, too, but his fears had been somewhat put to sleep by the time he'd spent with Astoria, and by the fact that his friends still trusted him. Maybe he could pass some of that courage on to Draco, if he tried.  
  
"Don't deny me this," Draco whispered. "Not this time."  
  
Harry swallowed. He hadn't thought Draco had noticed the last...dangerous moment. "We don't--there's no deception that would protect us--have you even thought about what it _is_ that we're denying?"  
  
Okay, so his voice was a little shrill on the last part. But he had to bring Draco back to his senses, because if Draco plunged and pulled Harry along with him, Harry didn't think he was strong enough to come back to the surface on his own.  
  
"Yes," Draco said, simply, devastatingly, and when he leaned in, it was to cover Harry's mouth with his own.  
  
_Damn it._ Harry had known it was coming, hadn't known it was coming, and he curled his fingers hungrily against Draco's back anyway. He dragged him closer, and Draco's hand finally let go of his robe collar to soothe and smooth up and around the nape of his neck, into his hair. That was how Harry figured out he liked having his hair tugged.  
  
And the tugging kept on, and Draco was leaning on him as if he would fall off the chair if Harry moved, and _damn it_.  
  
But Harry had been right. He was too exhausted to surface from the madness on his own. He dived into it, and Draco was right beside him, mouth open, following him down into something other than fear.  
  
And Harry was so _tired_ of being afraid.  
  
*  
  
Draco hadn't let himself think about this. For one thing, there might be some Death Eaters who had hidden Legilimency talent even from the Dark Lord himself. Professor Snape had managed it for years.  
  
For another, he wasn't sure it had happened, hadn't let what he had felt sometimes hovering between himself and Harry form into words. If it wasn't in words, then it wasn't happening. That was all there was to it.  
  
But now it was there, it was real, it was Harry answering him with a kiss as strong and starving as his own, and Draco's hands were clawing up Harry's back. Harry hissed and tossed his head to the side. Draco moved with him, though, not letting their mouths part.  
  
_If we do, I might do something stupid._  
  
Draco poured it out, all the frustration and the fear and the anger and the spite and the hatred of his situation, into the kiss, and Harry was there, answering him. The only one who was equally matched with him in all of those emotions. The only one who understood.  
  
They broke the kiss at last, both gasping, and Draco thought they were both also gasping as hard as each other. He leaned back in his chair and stared at Harry, shaking his head a little when Harry opened his mouth to say something.  
  
"Think about what you say before you say it," he whispered. "If it's stupid, then I can't promise to make my reaction intelligent."  
  
Harry blinked, thought about it, visibly swallowed, and murmured, "All right. Aren't you afraid that this will make things--harder for us? After all, there's really no lie that would save us if someone walked in on us." He cast a glance at the door of the library as though remembering they hadn't put charms on it.  
  
Draco reached out and slid one finger down Harry's wrist. It was gratifying, how that made Harry's gaze snap to him at once.  
  
_As if I was the most important thing in the universe. Just for a minute. Not the act for the Death Eaters, and not the Lightfinder, and not Lethe, and not finding his way back into the wizarding world and making sure his friends don't hate him._ Me.  
  
"Listen," Draco said. "It's hard already. I think that I'll take my wand in hand and start cursing someone if I don't have a way to escape. And I thought I could escape by coming to you and letting you hold me, but I don't think that's going to be enough anymore. Do you?" He leaned forwards and stared into Harry's eyes, waiting.  
  
Harry half-closed his eyes and shook his head. Draco reached out and touched the side of his neck, sliding his fingers up onto Harry's cheek and into his hair, and Harry opened his eyes one more time.  
  
"But why--this? I thought--I thought it might be this, but I also thought it might be--just friendship, like you have with Parkinson."  
  
Harry's voice was breathless. _Good_. Draco leaned towards him.  
  
"Because we need something as intense as the pressure we're under," he murmured. "Because things between us were too intense for that kind of friendship, which needs people who've known each other for years."  
  
"We have--"  
  
" _Known_ each other. Not just known of each other's existence."  
  
Harry wasn't stupid enough to protest that it was the same thing. He looked up and held Draco's gaze, then nodded silently. Draco smiled and cast some of the charms on the library door that they should have cast already.  
  
"Good," Draco said. "Now come here. I want to be able to go back to my father and present a perfect calm facade if I have to."  
  
Harry leaned forwards without protest. Draco sighed and opened his mouth and closed his eyes.  
  
_I need this. I want this. I'm going to have it. And so will he._  
  
_This'll be part of what keeps us both alive._


	29. Tumbling Faster

“Maybe we should rethink this.” Harry said that in some universe where he was the sane, responsible one, and Draco listened to him at all times. He said it, and they pulled back from each other and exchanged embarrassed glances and straightened their clothes and came up with a good plan to relieve their tension and make sure they didn’t snap and spill all their plans to the Death Eaters.  
  
That was in a different world, a different universe.  
  
Because here, Harry  _wasn’t_ the sane responsible one, and he was the first one to pull Draco’s shirt over his head, with a speed that made Draco sit back and gape at him a little, his eyes moving over Harry as if he was also half-naked.  
  
A second later, he was. Draco’s hands were fumbling at him, and his fingers scraped Harry’s sides in his haste and clumsiness, and Harry hissed and arched his back and spread his legs, forcing Draco to reach down between them while he was still wearing his trousers.  
  
Harry felt a burst of white light in his head when Draco’s fingers wrapped around his cock. He surged forwards, trying to shove himself into the grip of that hand. Draco’s hand tightened for a single second, then retreated.  
  
Harry lunged after him, and found himself falling. He landed on his hands and knees between their chairs, and Draco sat back with an exasperated look and shook his head at Harry.  
  
“If you  _calm down_ ,” Draco hissed, his fingers working frantically as he pulled the shirt over Harry’s head and then attacked the band of the trousers, “you’ll see how we’re going to do this.”  
  
Harry tried, but the mere touch of Draco’s hands set something burning in him that he had never felt burn before. He kept turning his head and trying to mouth at Draco’s fingers, and that made Draco’s nails sting all the harder as he scraped them up and down Harry’s sides. But finally Harry’s shirt was off, and Draco reached down and roughly yanked his trousers off as well.  
  
Harry went still, looking down between his own legs. He still had his pants on, of course, but the dark wet spot was visible on them. He looked up at Draco, who still had  _his_  trousers on, and opened his mouth.  
  
He was going to demand that Draco take them off. He  _was_.  
  
But Draco reached out and gripped Harry’s cock, holding his gaze this time, and Harry didn’t think about much of anything as his head tipped back and a hot sound worked its way out of his throat.  
  
Then he was hungry as well as hot and faint, and he attacked Draco hard enough that Draco tipped back on the floor, swearing. Harry spread his legs at once. Draco’s trousers were loose as if he’d lost weight recently, and maybe he had, and maybe Harry would worry about that later, but right now, he didn’t, because all that mattered was that they were easier to pull off.  
  
And Draco was leaning on his elbows back on the floor, gaping up at Harry, his mouth hanging open as if he wanted to show off his tonsils.  
  
Harry reached for Draco’s cock and gave a little twist, then heaved himself up on top of Draco.  
  
There was a sharp scent around him, one Harry had never smelled before. He nuzzled his head hard into the curl of Draco’s neck and sucked at it, and Draco yelped and reached up as if to fend him off. Harry caught his hand and sucked his fingers, one by one. By the time he did  _that_ , Draco was a willing, squirming mess beneath him, and Harry sat up triumphantly and solemnly pressed their groins together.  
  
The noise Draco made  _then_ …  
  
Harry ached with that noise. He would have been doing this before if he’d known what it would sound like. He would have done this in  _Hogwarts_.  
  
But he hadn’t known, and honestly, the only thing he could really do was make up for lost time. He rocked forwards and rubbed his cock against Draco’s, listening for that sound again, sighing when he heard it. And the sharp scent was all around him, and Draco’s nails were scratching down his back, and the sting of pain was exactly what Harry needed, combined with everything else.  
  
He was the one who had to rock, since he was the one who had Draco pinned down on the floor, but that didn’t prevent Draco from giving a good account of himself. He was writhing and staring up at Harry with burning eyes, and honestly, it was pretty bloody exciting. Harry pressed up and down, and rocked back and forth hard enough to hurt, in search of the only thing that would be  _more_ exciting.  
  
Their groins crushed together, their breaths huffed, and at one point, Harry thought Draco was trying to say something. He bent down towards him, cocking his head, and Draco slammed his mouth open in a deep yell and then came.  
  
Harry could feel that flood of warmth and wetness against him, although separated by two barriers of cloth, and he shuddered. Yes, that was the thing he had been waiting for, the  _most_ exciting thing, and both his heart and his breath seemed to leap out of his chest as he—  
  
As he followed Draco in and down, and out, or in whatever direction you were supposed to go when you’d had an orgasm. Whichever direction. Harry’s mind was warm and fuzzy as he sagged onto Draco’s chest, and he didn’t pay much attention to where his head came to rest, which turned out to be under Draco’s chin. He was going to lift a hand, he thought. He  _was._ But his hand flopped on the floor, too, and from the way Draco was breathing under him, he wasn’t in a hurry to move.  
  
The exhaustion and the warmth drifted down on top of them like invisible snow. Harry would have liked to lie there all day, if he’d had any choice.  
  
But they didn’t, and Harry finally forced himself to sit back and shake his head a little. Draco looked up at him through misty eyes, one hand still stroking Harry’s back. Then he blinked and sat up.  
  
“Did  _I_ do that?” He pulled his hand back, and Harry saw some blood on his fingers that must have come from the scratches Draco had inflicted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even know my nails were that sharp.”  
  
Harry held back a snicker when he saw the way Draco was staring at his hand. Draco would  _certainly_ take that the wrong way. “It’s all right,” he said. “I enjoyed it.” He arched his head down and kissed Draco.  
  
He didn’t get much of a response, but he understood when he pulled back and saw the sharp way Draco’s eyes were fastened on him—sharper than his fingernails. “Did you?” he muttered, almost under his breath. “Well, isn’t  _that_ something to think about.”  
  
Harry fought down the blush as much as he could, and shrugged a little while he sat back and reached for his own discarded clothes, climbing off Draco with a groan. “It is, but we can’t think about it right now.”  
  
“I suppose you would say that we shouldn’t have done this at all.” Draco sat up, wincing, and Summoned his own clothes after a moment of searching for his wand. His eyes hadn’t left Harry’s face, though, as Harry found when he turned curiously to look at him.   
  
“How could I say that?” Harry tugged the shirt over his head, and made a face when he felt the way the scratches pulled. He would have to cast a healing charm on them soon. No way could he face the Death Eaters while moving slowly. Any sign of weakness would make some of them, like Lucius, ready to leap on him.  
  
It was coming back now, the remembrance and realization of where they were and what they had done. Harry grimaced and shook his head. At least he felt more hopeful now, more ready to believe they could survive.  
  
And if that was a result of great sex, obviously the only thing to do was repeat it as often as possible.  
  
“You’re  _not_ going to say that?”  
  
Draco’s voice pulled Harry back to the conversation. “No,” he said. “It was as much my idea as yours. And I feel better now. Don’t you?”  
  
Draco nodded slowly. “I’ll walk funny for a while,” he said, and Harry caught his breath as he thought for a second of other ways that could be made to come true in the future. Draco smirked at him and added, “But that’s easily enough explained by the idea that you’re displeased with me and tortured your faithful servant. Should I act tortured?”  
  
Harry thought about it, then nodded. “Yes. Pretend that I lost my temper with someone else and tortured you because you were there, but then you reminded me of a missing piece of the Lightfinder and I healed some of the damage.” He focused on Draco, and grinned. “I’m sure you can phrase that so tense, jealous Death Eaters will hear what you want them to.”  
  
Draco smiled slowly back. “You have more faith in my abilities to play this game than I do myself.”  
  
“Is it too hard to on you?” Harry asked him. “I’m sorry. I only need about a fortnight more, I think.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because otherwise I’ll probably be toppled,” Harry told him. “I build the reverse Lightfinder by then or I don’t build it at all.”  
  
Draco stared at him with a flat look, then nodded. He had a mask that was assembling as Harry watched, and Harry knew he was tucking his real emotions away and preparing for a venture back out into the corridors among the Death Eaters.  
  
But there was a fire that hadn’t been there before, lit in the backs of his eyes and flickering madly with light and life. Harry smiled. Maybe this hadn’t been a bad idea after all, no matter how risky it had been.  
  
“I’ll go and do whatever I need to do,” Draco murmured, “to make sure you and my father and mother and I survive. But first…”  
  
He took a long, light step forwards, and kissed Harry hard enough to imprint his teeth on his lips. Then he turned and strode away, shutting the door behind him softly.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and spent a moment savoring the sting on his back and the pressure on his lips before he set about healing both.  
  
*  
  
“I think that you should know what trouble your  _father_ is getting himself into.”  
  
Greyback’s breath was warm and disgusting on the back of Draco’s neck. Draco kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was writing down a list that would appear to be Potions ingredients to anyone other than him and his mother who looked at it. However, in reality, it was a list of the symptoms that his father had displayed, ones that might help Draco figure out exactly what he had promised and what to.  
  
“Should I?” Draco dipped his quill in the ink again and kept writing. His letters weren’t large or looping, and that was almost the only difference between the enchanted writing and his normal hand. He didn’t think any of the Death Eaters would notice the difference. Harry was the only one who might. “What’s he done now?”  
  
Greyback snarled and circled around in front of him. Draco laid down the quill and gave Greyback a great deal of (blank, straight-faced) attention. He didn’t know what else Greyback wanted, or why he bared his teeth like that and leaned forwards as if he would bite off Draco’s nose.  
  
Draco would have been shivering and stinking of fear if this had happened only a few hours ago. As it was, he had something to give him inner strength now, something that had changed in a spectacular, positive way from his memories, unlike the changes that had happened to his father. He met Greyback’s gaze for long enough that a growl began to bubble in the werewolf’s throat, and Draco was reminded of what Greyback might think of a direct stare. Then he looked down and shrugged. “What’s he done now?” he repeated. “Something affecting me?”  
  
Greyback’s growl eased off, but his nails still came down and scored the old writing desk that Draco had found to balance his parchment on. Draco didn’t react, fixing his eyes on the edge of the paper, breathing in and out, and remembering what his aunt had taught him about Occlumency.  
  
“The Dark Lord wants to know what’s going on with him,” said Greyback abruptly. “Figured you were the best one to explain it.”  
  
Draco looked up with wide eyes. “That’s not true! You’re just trying to get me into trouble with the Dark Lord by telling secrets that aren’t yours and getting me to conspire against him with you!” In truth, he knew Greyback was probably frustrated by his fruitless assignment to spy on Lucius and was taking it out on Draco, but he could hardly say that.  
  
Greyback snarled again and leaned in close to Draco, treating Draco to a fine sight of his blackened gums and yellowing teeth. “You aren’t to  _question_ the Dark Lord. What he orders, you do!”  
  
“But I don’t know,” Draco said, and he thought he even managed to make it a convincing whimper. He raised his hands in front of him and focused on the edge of the parchment again. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything about my father other than what he’s told me, and I’ve already reported that to the Dark Lord.”  
  
“Then you can report it to me, too.” Greyback looked pleased with himself.  
  
Draco opened his mouth, and let the choking, ringing sensation from the spell his father had cast on him if he tried to betray his secrets come over him. It took a little effort, since Draco had already broken the spell once, but it seemed that it still held if he was trying to talk to someone other than Harry. He slid to the floor in the next instant, his head aching and his mind oddly clear and filled with satisfaction.  
  
Greyback was bending over him, patting at him and talking frantically. Only as he rose once again back to the surface of his own mind did Draco make out what he was saying. “I never meant…I don’t…the Dark Lord is going to  _kill_ me….”  
  
“If he found out that you killed another loyal servant of his?” Draco’s voice was croaking, and most of the time, he would have winced at that, because it made him look weak in front of Greyback. But right now, it was to his advantage. He sat up, leaning against the chair behind him, and grinned at Greyback in a way that he thought might make him look a little insane. Well, that was  _also_ to his advantage, right now. “Of course he would. And that means you should  _back off,_ Greyback. Listen to me.” He reached out with trembling, nerveless fingers, and Greyback caught his hand as if he thought Draco would try to hurt himself if he didn’t. “What my father is doing is between him and the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord knows all about it.”  
  
“Then why did he set me to spy on the bastard?”  
  
Draco met his eyes and realized abruptly,  _Whoops. I need to make sure that I don’t accidentally disrupt one of Harry’s plans or set Greyback on the_ right  _trail, either._ He cleared his throat abruptly, coughed, and then murmured, “You didn’t know? Well, all right, I suppose you have to know now.”  
  
He made a big show of looking around, although they were in an isolated, disused bedroom and probably only Greyback’s keen nose had enabled him to track Draco down in the first place. Greyback searched with him, nostrils wrinkling back and teeth showing, then grunted and turned to Draco. “It’s clear.”  
  
“Good,” said Draco, and lowered his voice mysteriously. “The Dark Lord knows all about my father’s plans. But he couldn’t let  _him_ know that, could he? Among other things, the Dark Lord is curious to see how far my father will go in betraying him. So he lets him run on a sort of—chain.” He coughed. His throat still hurt when he talked.  
  
Greyback’s rapt attention made up for that, though. Draco called his voice and his ideas back up. “So he set you to spy on Lucius. He knows you’re loyal to him, so even if you had trouble finding out my father’s secrets, you wouldn’t turn against our Lord and come to him with some sort of made-up story. You’re part of a plan to distract Lucius and not let him know that the Dark Lord knows about his treacherous activities.”  
  
It was nonsense, of course—no one would ever trust Greyback with subtleties—but  _Greyback_ didn’t know he was so unsubtle. As he watched the werewolf’s face change, Draco knew he had him.  
  
Greyback stepped back and spent a moment considering Draco before nodding seriously. “Why did you know about this, though?”  
  
Draco smiled grimly, not making any attempt to get up yet. “I am my Lord’s loyal servant. And I had to know in case some of the things that my father said to me didn’t make sense. I had to know so I wouldn’t fight when my father cast this spell on me that won’t let me tell anyone else about what he’s doing.” He added, “The only reason I can tell you is that the Dark Lord trusts you. I didn’t even know how much. If I had opened my mouth and nothing came out, then that would mean he  _didn’t_ trust you. Courtesy of the Dark Lord’s spell, in turn.” He cautiously put his knees beneath him and started to rise to his feet.  
  
Greyback tugged him the rest of the way up, grinning all over his face. “The Dark Lord could have let me know,” he muttered, but the sour note of complaint wasn’t in his words. He spent a moment gazing into Draco’s eyes before he nodded and touched his nose to Draco’s cheek. Draco thought he might have hidden his horrified expression sufficiently. “Well. I owe you a debt, little puppy.”  
  
“You have to keep it secret,” Draco told him. “So the Dark Lord can triumph over his traitorous servants.”  
  
Greyback grinned again. “You think I didn’t get that?” He closed his left eye in a wink and tapped his ragged nails against his nose. “I won’t trouble you any more now.”  
  
He winked again and left the room. Draco got back into his chair. Yes, he believed that. Of course, Greyback might be grinning and giving him “subtle” signs across the room, but that couldn’t be helped. Lucius already suspected Greyback, anyway.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
Draco started and turned around, thinking for a second that he might now have to face Arsinoe Rosier; the voice was a woman’s. But instead, his mother stepped into the room and shut the door firmly behind her.  
  
“I have found out what force of magic your father made the promise to,” she said.  
  
It took Draco longer than it should have to pull his mind from the thoughts occupying it, where his father was primarily an enemy, and come back to what had to be his reality. He nodded and shrugged a little, feeling the harsh way his shoulders moved. “All right. What?”  
  
Narcissa stared at him. “Do you believe it would be wise to  _name_ it?”  
  
Draco’s face flared as though someone had lit a fire beneath his skin, and he moved aside from the parchment on the writing desk. “Can it detect its name when it’s written down?”  
  
Narcissa shook her head once and strode over to the chair. Her hand trembled as it closed on the quill, and Draco had to shut his eyes. To see his mother afraid like this meant it was—much worse than he had possibly thought it could be.  
  
The quill slashed and cut down the page, from the sound of it. Then it was still. Draco opened his eyes, thinking it was a short name when he would have expected an enormously complicated one, and leaned over to stare at the word written there.  
  
 _Ignis_.  
  
Draco barely stopped himself from saying the name aloud. He did wonder what it meant, though, and why his mother would worry about it. It was Latin, a word used in incantations probably by hundreds of wizards every day. What--?  
  
Then he knew, and shivered. There had to be a difference between hearing a name in incantations and hearing it spoken by a witch who had probably just come from the investigation to find out what it was.  
  
“The force of elemental fire,” he murmured. “Right?”  
  
“Yes,” said Narcissa, seeming to relax once she realized he wasn’t about to speak the actual word aloud. “And I only discovered it because I was able to touch his mind with—with a spell that we implanted during our bonding.” From the way she winced, Draco could readily believe this was the first time she had ever told someone else about it. “I still don’t know if I got it completely right, but combined with other clues…”  
  
“Yes,” Draco muttered, thinking of the way that one ring of skin in Lucius’s promise sigil had blackened. Perhaps they were off-track, but they couldn’t be far. “What do you think that force is going to do when it comes to retrieving the promise, then?”  
  
“It is already doing it.” Narcissa’s gaze was steady. “It is burning him up from the inside, not literally but on enough of a literal plane that he will indeed lose his sanity and sense of self. However, enough is already gone that it is likely he does not realize what is happening. The force could break its promise, and he would never know.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes. “What can we do to stop it?”  
  
His mother was silent. Draco looked at her again, and found she was looking at him, but not the way she had before. It was more the way she had looked right after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she had acted as though he might still have died right in front of her.  
  
Draco sat up, shaking his head stubbornly. “No.”  
  
“I can save you,” Narcissa said. “I no longer think I can save your father. The man I promised to stand beside and marry and make a family with is already ceasing to exist.”  
  
“I have a way to save him,” said Draco.  
  
Narcissa paused, and Draco saw the flicker behind her supposedly pure coolness. She wanted to believe him. She just didn’t know if she dared. “You do?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said.  
  
“How?”  
  
And Draco looked her in the eyes, and smiled, and lied.


	30. A Single Chance

Harry was glad that he was alone when Hermione’s Patronus swam abruptly through the wall and reared up in front of him, sparkling silver. But he still found himself freezing sort of the way he would if he wasn’t alone and had to explain the presence of a ghostly otter to a bunch of Death Eaters.  
  
The otter sat up on its hindquarters, groomed its whiskers for a second, and looked Harry in the eye. “The Ministry has decided to blame the Death Eaters for the explosion of the Lightfinder. They’re hunting them seriously.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He supposed he should have expected that, if only because it was the worst possible thing for the Ministry to decide, and the Ministry was always deciding the worst possible thing for Harry.   
  
But he shook off the pessimism and leaned back in his chair, curling his fingers around the arms. The books on the table next to him seemed to tremble in the wake of his sigh, or maybe that was the wake of the Patronus disappearing, which it had done by the time he opened his eyes.  
  
Harry took the time to draw his wand and conjure his own stag, though it took a moment for him to get the spell right when he didn’t dare shout the incantation. The stag that bounded out turned to look at him curiously for a second until he said, “Go to Hermione,” and added, “Message received. Thank you, Hermione. I’ll do what I can.”  
  
The stag blurred with its speed as it left, and Harry turned and eyed the pile of books again. They were both the ordinary books that Astoria and Parkinson had found, and the tomes that he had retrieved from Slytherin’s vault.  
  
He thought he knew what he had to do, and what would solve the various problems: taking care of the Death Eaters, curing the madness inflicted on the wizarding world by the Lightfinder, and solving Draco’s problem with his father. But he only  _thought_ he knew what to do. Harry would have appreciated it a lot if he had been able to take some more time and figure it out in finer detail.  
  
But he didn’t have that time. He reached for the first book and began preparing himself, mentally and emotionally, for the Death Eater meeting he would have to hold tomorrow.  
  
*  
  
Draco kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked into the dining room the next day. His mother walked behind him, and every time she met his gaze, Draco thought she would see the lie he had fed her.  
  
He had said that the reverse Lightfinder Harry was researching would give them the ability to cure Lucius. Draco barely remembered the lies he had spun now, what he had said about madness and notes and intentions and Light and Dark magic. He had only known that his mother needed the reassurance and  _he_ needed the breathing space, the time that he would have before his mother would start to pressure him into leaving the Death Eaters, and leaving his father behind.  
  
Of course, he would have to tell Harry about the lie and find out whether he had some way to make it come true.  
  
He looked up and caught Harry’s eye as they took their place in the assembled crowd. Harry nodded distantly to him and then looked out over the heads of the Death Eaters again. Draco bristled and swallowed and tried not to show how hard his heart was thumping. That would only make it worse, if he betrayed fear now.  
  
Greyback was the next to catch his eye, from where he crouched near the foot of Harry’s throne. He winked, the exact same way Draco had thought he would. Draco thought he managed a compromise between a sickly smile and the knowing one Greyback would expect.  
  
No matter how Draco looked, though, he couldn’t see his father. He hesitated, wondering what Lucius was doing. If he had been less prominent among the Death Eaters and had fewer eyes fixed on him, he would have tried slipping away from the back of the meeting to find out.  
  
“My faithful followers!”  
  
Draco jumped. Harry had added something to his voice, a hissing, clacking, sliding undertone that had never been there before, and which Draco didn’t know how he’d produced. He found himself staring along with the rest as Harry rose to his feet and waved his wand. Out from behind the throne floated what looked at first like a few small pieces of wood stuck in a piece of ice.  
  
Then Harry enlarged it, and Draco stopped breathing as he realized he was looking at a working model of the reverse Lightfinder.  
  
That was what it  _had_ to be. Harry wouldn’t have wasted his time building anything else. Draco could see the gleams, here and there, of the exotic gems and wood that some of the Death Eaters had been detailed to get, and smoking and bubbling in a small pit in the enchanted ice was a Pepper-Up potion, the one his father had brewed. Harry stepped slowly behind the floating model and smiled into their silence.   
  
“To prove to you that I hold no resentment for your actions in the past, and am as willing to take risks as anyone else in the pursuit of our goals…” he said, and flicked his wand in a different motion, one that made the following word come as less of a surprise to Draco. “ _Serpensortia!_ ”  
  
The cobra conjured by the spell reared up in front of Harry like a ribbon of darkness and turned its head to regard the Death Eaters. Draco couldn’t understand the hiss that rolled off its tongue, but he could translate an approximation, and he flinched as the snake unrolled a centimeter or two forwards.  
  
Harry hissed something. Draco watched the Death Eaters sway in rapt contemplation, and Greyback whine and roll on his back, and understood why Harry was putting on this show, when it might seem tangential to his purposes with the reverse Lightfinder. It would remind them that he was a Parselmouth and had magic they had only ever attributed to Voldemort.  
  
 _And it might reassure a few of the slipping faithful that he still has Voldemort’s soul inside him._  
  
The cobra wreathed itself around the reverse Lightfinder, smothering a great deal of the wood and gems under its bulk. It kept away from the ice and the potion, Draco noticed, but then he wasn’t surprised by that. What mattered was that Harry, in a few minutes, had a model essentially covered with snakeskin. The cobra dropped its head down and became docile, like Draco’s conjured snake had in second year after Harry ordered it to stop attacking.  
  
“To show you,” said Harry, still with that clacking undertone to his voice. Draco found it hard to read his expression. He knew this was only an act, but it was still hard to put that same face on the one from his memory, flushed with passion and yearning for him. “What it means to be a Dark Lord, what it means to command magic that no one else  _does_.” He closed his hand into a fist, and the reverse Lightfinder burst into flame.  
  
Draco cried out, and Greyback cowered back as though someone had flung the fireball at his nose. Well, it  _was_ almost at his nose, spitting and tossing sparks, Draco had to concede. Harry had lit the machine rather suddenly on fire right in front of his throne, and Greyback was close by default.  
  
Draco thought if he had the time to slow down and consider the fire carefully, it would be a less impressive effect than it seemed, but Harry wasn’t giving anyone the time to do that considering. He was tracing his wand in circles and—appropriately— _serpentine_ patterns, and the cobra caught fire.  
  
It didn’t move, though, remaining still even as the blue light and the red and the grey and the silver crawled up through the joins between its scales. Draco winced. He didn’t want to watch an animal burn to death in front of him, even a conjured and poisonous one.  
  
But Harry waved his wand again, and there was another bright surge of fire and light, and the flames that had begun to dance around the cobra coalesced into one significant  _snap_ and burned out. When Draco could see again, his mouth fell open.  
  
Where the cobra had been, awkwardly draped around the Lightfinder and unwinding itself from that frame with a click of hooves on the ice, was a unicorn foal. It stared and blinked from face to face, stubby horn lifting and bobbing as it apparently looked for grass, or maybe mother’s milk. The coat was slick gold.  
  
“What did I tell you?” Harry’s voice rose to a triumphant shout. “A machine that can change Dark into Light and Light into Dark, the dreaded symbol of one into the revered symbol of the other! Making a Light wizard into a Dark one is possible now!” He turned to face the densest cluster of the Death Eaters, the one that included Arsinoe Rosier and the Lestrange brothers, his fists upraised. “ _We_ have won this war! Any Light wizard that we capture will turn into a Dark one and join our side on command! The Ministry have left them no choice, not with the hunting of Dark wizards that they have proclaimed!”  
  
He might have said more, but it was lost in the cheering. Draco shook his head, dazed, and couldn’t help glancing at his mother from the corner of his eye.  
  
Narcissa was standing rigid, eyes flickering back and forth between the unicorn foal and Harry’s face. Then her expression set again. Draco found it hard to tell what she was feeling, as he often had during inconvenient moments of his life.   
  
“ _I_ will rule!” Harry’s voice finally rose loud enough to be heard over the uproar, or maybe he had used another spell to strengthen it. “And my most faithful followers will rule with me!”  
  
This time, the shouting was cut with applause, and a few speculative glances. Draco, because he knew the way Death Eater politics worked, was sure that some of them were already drawing lines between “faithful” and “not faithful enough” and becoming sure of where they stood—and who they needed to eliminate.  
  
“I will exhibit my invention on a human in a week’s time,” said Harry, and gave a dark smile at some of the Death Eaters. “And perhaps you will remember, you who questioned my power or thought I could not have it because I am trapped in  _his_ body, what I may ask of you to prove your loyalty.”  
  
Draco blinked. He had to admit he had no idea what Harry had planned, and that worried him. Still, he needed to get to Harry and warn him about his lie concerning Lucius before his mother could demand a demonstration. He wondered what excuse would work for that, or if he would simply have to wait and try to find him alone later.  
  
It turned out he didn’t need to. Harry turned back, and Draco found himself pinned in the grasp of eyes that were glamoured—he was almost  _sure_ they were glamoured—red. Harry reached out and snapped long white fingers at him.  
  
“I will need other faithful servants to speak to about the machine and the components that power it. Come with me, Malfoy.”  
  
And off he swirled, his long cloak snapping behind him and pulling Draco in its wake, while Draco heard the excited murmurs of the other Death Eaters rising. It seemed most of them were trying to figure out where Draco stood, if being invited with Harry meant he was faithful or not.  
  
 _Not Harry. The Dark Lord._  
  
It would be fatal if Draco forgot how most of the Death Eaters saw Harry. Or if he couldn’t tell him soon enough what his lie to his mother had entailed.  
  
Draco tilted his chin at an angle they were free to take as cocky, or stubborn and knowing, and followed Harry.  
  
*  
  
It had worked. It had  _worked_.  
  
Harry leaned back against the wall, shaking, in the moments before Draco and the floating reverse Lightfinder followed him into his rooms. He deserved at least this long to tremble and imagine what would have happened if something had gone wrong.  
  
And revel in the fact that it hadn’t.  
  
He glanced at the reverse Lightfinder and flicked his wand. The unicorn foal dissolved at once into warm, floating mist. Draco, coming through the door, froze with his hands lifted before him and his eyes blinking, as if he thought it was a special spell that Harry might use on him next.  
  
Harry smiled at him and rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me that you failed to recognize an illusion when you saw one.”  
  
“An—illusion,” Draco said flatly, and stared at the place where the unicorn foal had stood. Harry gently placed the floating prototype on the floor, and Draco’s stare followed it down before it snapped back to Harry’s face. “But—it couldn’t have been. We all saw it. We all _heard_ it. Greyback would have smelled it if it was an illusion. And that  _Serpensortia_ snake was real enough.”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows and hissed, “ _Will you come out now?”_  The cobra flowed from behind the façade of the reverse Lightfinder and curled up at his feet. Harry reached down and picked it up, enjoying, despite himself, the way Draco’s eyes widened as he draped the cobra across his own shoulders like an affectionate pet.  
  
Draco shook his head as though trying to get water out of his ears. “How did you  _do_ that?”  
  
“Decided what would be most effective for the Death Eaters to see, in terms of a Dark creature transformed into a Light creature,” Harry said, and shrugged. “Or creatures that most people think of as Dark and Light, anyway. Found a spell that would add a convincing smell to an illusion. Practiced the spells until I thought my hand would fall off. Added a few of the components to the reverse Lightfinder. Added another illusion spell that would provide that flash of smoke and light and conceal the snake at the same time.” He grinned and touched the back of the cobra’s neck, behind the hood, having to admit he enjoyed the stupefied look on Draco’s face. “It’s not good enough to last, but it fooled them for right now.”  
  
Draco nodded, his eyes already going shadowed. “It’ll last for right now, but what about later?”  
  
Harry snorted and put the cobra on the floor, where it slithered away into a corner. “I told you that I had a fortnight. Just because I come up with stopgap measures doesn’t mean I’m not working on the real solution.”  
  
Draco’s fingers clenched into his palms for a minute. “Then you can tell me what they are?”  
  
“They all depend on the reverse Lightfinder,” Harry said, and Summoned the book that held his notes. They were warded with an enchantment that made Draco flinch as the book came to him, and Harry quickly waved his wand and dissipated it with a muttered apology. “It’s an Aversion Charm, just in case. But I don’t think most people will be prying into the private books of the Dark Lord Voldemort anyway.”  
  
Draco’s head bobbed at the name, and he gave a quick, dry swallow, but he didn’t show any other reaction. “As long as they  _think_ you’re the Dark Lord.”  
  
“Right.” Harry waved his wand and dissipated the spell that hid the exact nature of his notes. Draco bent towards him when Harry beckoned, and Harry was hit with an unexpectedly stunning desire to bite into Draco’s neck, which was  _right in front of him_ and not being exploited at the moment in any way.  
  
Harry half-lowered his eyelids, controlled his desire, and said again, “Right. The Lightfinder works, or was meant to work, with the powerful will and intention of a single wizard. I’m strong enough to do that. It’ll take a few more enchantments that are a bit tricky, and I really do need some of the ingredients that I’m sending the Death Eaters out for. But I think I can make it.”  
  
Draco gave him a weirdly outraged look. “Then the ingredients you wanted us to get weren’t real?”  
  
“Some of them were, some of them weren’t.” Harry shook his head at Draco’s glare. “I wanted to make sure no one could tell exactly what I was building, in case some of them have read up on experiments like this before, and it would seem exciting and mystical to them. And don’t put yourself in the group of Death Eaters. You’re  _not_ one of them.”  
  
Draco shifted a little closer to him. “Who does know all the right ingredients, besides you?”  
  
Harry leaned a hand against Draco’s shoulder and tried to determine whether the look in Draco’s eyes was real or he was just reading his own desire into things. “Probably Astoria, since she did most of the original research, although I’m not sure that she ever sat down and wrote out the whole list. Why?”  
  
Draco sucked in a soft breath and grazed his finger over Harry’s lips. “And most of the Death Eaters think you’re moving in on my territory when you spend that much time with Astoria, because they think we’re still betrothed,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “I’m not sure which of you I should be jealous of, though.”  
  
Harry’s head was spinning, and he had to put the book down on the nearest table as Draco leaned more and more heavily on him. He groaned as Draco ran a hand down his chest.  
  
“You’re not sure who you should be jealous of,” he whispered. “And I’m not sure this is a good idea.”  
  
Draco hesitated, then whispered, “A kiss. Please? I’ve been thinking about it, and thinking about all the other things we need to regret and keep track of and hold onto, and—and I told my mother you could help my father, and now I’m sure that’s not true and she’s going to be so angry, and just, please, Harry.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to say that he  _did_ think he could help Lucius, as long as he got the reverse Lightfinder built right and on time, but Draco evidently took an open mouth as an invitation to introduce his tongue. Harry gasped as he staggered backwards and bumped into the wall, then moaned as Draco bit down and surged into him and began to rub at the same time.  
  
 _Just a kiss, right,_ Harry thought dazedly, before he wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders and started giving back.  
  
Draco rubbed against him hard enough to send Harry into a spiraling, soaring mass of sensation, and there was a moment, two moments, surely no longer than three, when Draco’s hands were not only everywhere but also his tongue, his hips, his cock. Harry gasped back and lifted one leg to wrap around Draco’s waist, and Draco knocked the book over, and Harry sincerely hoped the smashing sound a second later wasn’t an inkwell and it wasn’t getting on the book.  
  
But it didn’t matter if it was, not with the warmth washing over him, and the way they had slipped down and one of Harry’s feet was twisted uncomfortably beneath him, not to mention his arm twisted over to the side. He kissed with his neck bending, and Draco shuddered against him and his tongue went still in Harry’s mouth in a way that Harry had already learned to recognize. He hadn’t known he  _could_ come to recognize it so quickly.  
  
His mind blurred and burnt with pleasure, and Harry reached out one hand and caught Draco’s arm so he didn’t simply slide to the ground. Draco clucked and purred over to the side, a sound of satisfaction, before he caught Harry’s arm and pulled him neatly back upright.  
  
“I needed that,” Draco muttered, his face shining.  
  
Harry nodded. He didn’t know if he could say they both had, even if he suspected it was true, but Draco didn’t have to hear him say it. He blinked at Draco, and Draco smiled and let him go once he was back upright.  
  
“Your reverse Lightfinder can do almost anything, then?” Draco asked casually, as if they hadn’t just been having a deeper kind of connection than words could give.  
  
Harry swallowed, breathed, and managed to answer, “Sort of. I’m working on making it a way to cure your father of his insanity, but I can’t say that I’ve arrived at that yet.”  
  
Draco stared at him. Then he dropped back almost on his arse—only the wall being in the way saved him from that—and began laughing.  
  
Harry blinked. That hadn’t been the reaction he’d thought Draco would have to that particular announcement. He opened his mouth, about to ask if something was wrong, and Draco didn’t really want his father cured of his insanity after all, but instead, Draco stood up and caught his hands, smiling into his eyes.  
  
“That’s perfect,” he said. “You see, I told my mother a lie that you would manage to cure Father with your machine.”  
  
Harry blinked again, very slowly, feeling that he had to be missing something here. “Why would you tell your mother something that wasn’t true—well, that you didn’t know could come true?”  
  
“Because I was desperate, and she’d given up on rescuing Father, and I wanted to show her it was still possible.” Draco shook his head. “Thank you for making my lie come true.” He leaned in and gave Harry a dreamy glance. “But my father has promised himself—his whole self, his own  _being—_ to a potent elemental force. The force of, um, well, its Latin name is something to do with burning.” He pressed his fingers over Harry’s lips, and Harry realized he had been about to say the name, more or less thoughtlessly. “Can your will overcome that?”  
  
Harry breathed out slowly. He thought about his own stress, and how Hermione had once told him that stress could weaken magic. He thought about how strong an elemental force of magic must be, and all the things he had to do to get the reverse Lightfinder  _really_ ready, and how he had to worry about the Death Eaters finding them out in that time.  
  
And then he thought about how he had defeated Voldemort despite all the forces against him, and he nodded.   
  
“I can do it.”  
  
Draco leaned in and gave him the gentlest kiss they’d yet shared. Harry touched Draco’s back and sighed into his mouth.  
  
And he realized something.  
  
 _I’d want to do it for him, even if there was no other reason to._


	31. Lucius's Move

Harry moved a slow step back from the reverse Lightfinder and spent a moment eyeing it. He wondered if that was what it was supposed to look like.  
  
Then he snorted. As far as he knew, there had never been something like this in the world before, which meant no one would know how to use it or what it should look like. The others had been built with no real understanding of their purpose, that or they had been influenced by many wizards at once rather than a single powerful one.  
  
He wondered for a second if he should call it the Darkfinder, and then dismissed that notion. What he called it wasn’t important right now.  
  
Harry paced around to the side. There was a wooden “doorway” of sorts, which looked normal from the front and back, but had a strange shimmery air to it from the sides. Harry waved a hand through it and felt a sharp inrush of power that disappeared when it touched his skin. He supposed that, since it was made of his own magic, that only made sense.  
  
How would it react to someone else, though? Harry stepped back around in front and stared at the dark glass orb fastened to the podium of sorts that stood there. The podium was made of wood, connected to a single gleaming metal bar that in turn ran back and connected with the doorway. Technically, it was meant to stand on a dais, but Harry only intended to do that when he presented it ceremoniously to the Death Eaters, or if it was practical. This was different.  
  
Harry tapped his finger against his teeth. He needed to test this on someone, and he wished it could be a human. But an animal would have to do for now, at least until he had some  _proof_ it was working the way it was supposed to. He held out his wand and called in a guttural tone, “ _Serpensortia!_ ”  
  
This time, the snake that came forth was a gleaming ball python, an almost-white snake Harry remembered from the zoo where it had freed the boa constrictor. It swayed from side to side, glancing around, apparently because it assumed it would find a threat, and coiled up instead to look at him when it didn’t find one.  
  
“ _Into the thing there,”_ Harry hissed, and pointed to the foot of the podium. He wasn’t sure that Parseltongue even had a word for “machine,” and he wasn’t interested in finding out now.  
  
The snake coiled around the metal bar, and Harry spent a moment shrinking the podium down until the glass globe was right in front of the snake. He realized his breath was coming short and his muscles tingled the way they had when he was running away from the Death Eaters through the Department of Mysteries. He shook his head and tried to relax.  
  
But this was still the first testing, the real one, without illusions. He would know in a minute whether he had more work to do or not.  
  
“ _Look at the egg_ ,” he said. That was the closest word for globe or sphere, and the snake willingly lifted its head and gazed into the globe.  
  
Harry clenched his fist and waved his wand. The instructions he had worked out had said that any words could be a trigger for the Lightfinder; it didn’t have to be an incantation. Harry had chosen ones that he was sure he would never speak carelessly. “ _Mouse in your teeth_ ,” he said, in Parseltongue.   
  
The globe flashed from within, a dark radiance that seemed to open up a vision of him falling down a long tunnel. Harry jerked his head back without thinking about it, and then the light flooded over the snake.  
  
Harry wondered for a second if he had been wise to try a transformation first, instead of something like making the snake’s magical affinity appear. It would be Dark, of course, since a Dark wizard had conjured it.  
  
But before he could complete the usual doubt and decide it would be better off to wait until later, the radiance receded like running water, and left Harry gaping at what it had left behind.  
  
The snake was now a gleaming, rainbow-hued creature, the shimmer of blue and indigo and red so deep that it seemed to extend into the scales rather than simply lie on them, and the small purple plume that rose from the head folded back down against it a second later. Feathered wings extended from the snake’s sides, and the serpent rose with a soft beat of them as it looked around the room with eyes that shone almost the color of Harry’s. Or the color people were always telling him his were, anyway. Like emeralds.  
  
Harry just watched it, uncertain. He had hoped the snake would turn into a unicorn foal, the way he had done with his illusion. He didn’t know what this meant at all, except that he probably needed to do more with the reverse Lightfinder.  
  
The serpent flew once around the room, and then landed on the desk and stared at him. Harry thought he knew what it wanted. It was no longer just a conjured creature, and no longer a Dark one, either. It was a fully sentient magical being, and it wanted to leave. He didn’t even have to talk to it in Parseltongue, which might not work now anyway, to know that.  
  
He opened a window and let it go. The serpent’s wings seemed to be growing stronger. It flew out of sight without a glance behind.  
  
Harry turned and stared at the reverse Lightfinder again. So it could do something impressive, and if the Death Eaters demanded another demonstration, he could show them this. But the lack of control wouldn’t impress them.  
  
And worse, he had no idea  _why_ this had been the result. It wasn’t going to help him if he couldn’t make the reverse Lightfinder do what he wanted it to do.  
  
A shrill noise, like Aunt Petunia’s voice, sounded off to the side. Harry glanced over and realized that it was an alarm he had set to warn him when someone was approaching his rooms who wasn’t Draco, Parkinson, or Astoria. He flicked his wand to silence it and stepped wearily up to the door. He didn’t like having to put on his Voldemort mask outside full meetings with the Death Eaters.  
  
On the other hand, few of them had had courage to seek him out so far other than Fenrir Greyback, and it might be Narcissa Malfoy. Harry therefore hissed through the door in what was a tolerant tone for his impersonation, “What do you seek? The Dark Lord Voldemort is busy and must not be disturbed!”  
  
“That is because you are not the Dark Lord Voldemort,” said Lucius’s cool voice. “My Lord would never speak like that.”  
  
Harry reacted, whipping his wand down and pointing at the hinges, where there was a small gap. He had already warded it so no one could peer in from the outside, but there was nothing there to act as a barrier to the passing of his own spells. The Stunner slithered through, and a second later, Harry heard the thump of Lucius’s body falling to the floor.  
  
He opened the door and floated Lucius inside using magic. Someone might already think he was suspicious, but a display of power could calm their suspicions.  
  
No one else stood in the corridor, and the automatic seeking spell Harry cast for Disillusionment Charms revealed nothing. Harry still Disillusioned himself and stood listening and looking for long moments before he was convinced that Lucius had come alone. Of course, that would make sense, with as few allies as he had among the Death Eaters.  
  
Harry stepped back inside, shut the door behind him, and stooped over the unconscious Lucius. It had already occurred to him that this was the best chance to try and make sure that Lucius  _could_ be changed by the Lightfinder, or affected by it. How else was Harry going to study him?  
  
Lucius was already stirring. Harry snorted and Stunned him again, then stood up and floated him over to the reverse Lightfinder. He couldn’t exactly have Lucius look into the globe and record his reactions that way when he was unconscious, but he could see whether Lucius’s magic interacted with the Lightfinder in different ways than his did.  
  
Yes, it  _did._ The minute Lucius came close, the power around the reverse Lightfinder reared up and spat at him. Harry paused, startled, and then noticed that the magic seemed to be coalescing around the outside of Lucius’s wrist.  
  
 _Didn’t Draco say that’s where the promise sigil is?_  
  
Harry used his wand to push back Lucius’s sleeve. He winced at what he saw. There was a ring of skin around Lucius’s wrist like tarnished silver, but more than that, there was an enormous patch that reminded Harry of a burn and a bruise combined. It seemed to swell and pulse as he watched, as though something was living beneath the skin. Watching him.  
  
 _And Draco also said that he swore himself to an elemental force of magic, an elemental force of burning_.  
  
Harry hesitated one more time. Then he conjured a small stretcher above the metal pole that bound the podium to the doorway and tried to float Lucius onto it.  
  
The spasm of sparks that flew out of the reverse Lightfinder, and the sound of rending wood and metal, made Harry worry he had broken it for a moment. Luckily, it settled down a second later, and while the constant humming that began to come out of it wasn’t a sound Harry had ever heard before, at least it was calm.  
  
The magic that surrounded the Lightfinder had rejected Lucius, utterly. Harry saw a number of small burns on him, probably left by the sparks, and winced. How was he going to explain  _this_ to Draco, even if he’d had to do something so Lucius wasn’t able to reveal his suspicions to anyone else?  
  
Then, even as Harry watched, the burns vanished as though someone had simply taken a cloth and scrubbed it across Lucius, erasing them. And the promise sigil began to gleam, while the swollen part of it grew a small, lizard-like head and opened long, slitted eyes to stare at Harry. The head and eyes were the same blue-black color as that part of Lucius’s skin.  
  
Harry held still. He doubted trying to talk to it in Parseltongue would help. Besides, that was mostly for snakes and not lizards, as far as he knew.  
  
He wanted to laugh at his thoughts a second later. He was confronting a representative of an elemental magical force that could probably burn him to death where he stood, and he was worried about whether he could communicate with it and the intricacies of Parseltongue. Hermione would probably be proud of him, if he managed to live past this.  
  
The lizard’s head began to hiss. Fire flew out of its mouth, but even as Harry started to dodge, the fire formed into letters that hovered in the air.  _My name is Ignis. This is my prize._  
  
“I don’t intend to challenge you for your prize,” Harry said. He wondered for a second if cringing and pretending to be respectful would change things, but he doubted it. Even if this thing didn’t help Lucius, it probably wouldn’t let Harry  _Obliviate_ him or anything like that. “I intend to eliminate the threat he presents to me.”  
  
And that way would be through the reverse Lightfinder unless there was absolutely no way to get Lucius’s sanity back, but Harry didn’t think Ignis could read thoughts. Otherwise, it would probably have told Lucius about Draco, and about Harry, the minute they walked into the manor house.  
  
 _He will present no further threat._ The letters picked up, orange and blue and white, from the tip of the lizard’s snout. Harry winced from the press of the heat on his skin.  _I will remove him from here._  
  
“I know that he’s your prize and you’re already taking him elsewhere,” said Harry cautiously, while he felt as if he might suffocate from anxiety. Saying the wrong thing to Ignis could result in Lucius vanishing altogether, because it had decided to consume him early. “But will you leave him here for a time?”  
  
 _Why?_ This one had a particularly violent scroll of red fire at the end.  
  
“Because I wish to study his response to my device.” Harry nodded towards the reverse Lightfinder. It was even the truth. He just wasn’t going to tell Ignis about the part where he wanted to find out about the response so he could use the reverse Lightfinder to rescue Lucius.  
  
The lizard’s head lashed towards the machine. Harry waited. He still had trouble breathing, but he felt a little better than he had.  
  
The biggest part of the danger was that Ignis was so powerful and had been around so long, of course. But along with that came certain limitations. Ignis probably hadn’t paid enough attention to human politics to know about reverse Lightfinders or anything like them. Harry thought the very newness of the machine might let it slip past Ignis’s knowledge.  
  
The lizard’s head turned slowly back towards Harry. Lucius hadn’t stirred from this latest Stunner, Harry noticed, despite the fact that he’d begun shedding the other one much earlier. It probably was the force of magic and the promise sigil in his body that had made him start reacting early last time, rather than his innate strength.  
  
 _You will have three days to study him,_ said the lizard, with a snap of something that might have been a tail from beneath the skin on the back of Lucius’s hand.  
  
Harry bowed. “You are fair and generous, great one. I will hand him to you when that time is done, at—” He cast a  _Tempus_ Charm, worried for a moment that it might make him look weak, and then decided that Ignis would probably be content with that. “At noon three days hence?”  
  
Ignis inclined its head one more time, and then the lizard sank into the inflamed promise sigil and disappeared.  
  
Harry stood there breathing for long enough that he had begun to realize he couldn’t keep Lucius here. If nothing else, someone might go looking for him, or come to ask Harry a question, and there were few ways that Harry could explain the presence of Lucius in his quarters.  
  
Someone did knock on his door then, but given the way the alarms had kept silent, Harry knew it was one of the few people he trusted.  
  
“A moment,” he called back, and he was amazed that his voice sounded calm and sane.   
  
He floated Lucius to the side, near the reverse Lightfinder but not in it; given the way the magic flexed and snapped in warning, he knew that would be stupid if he tried it. Then he concealed Lucius under a Disillusionment Charm, stepped back, closed his eyes for a moment, and gave himself the breathing space that he required.   
  
Yes, he was facing a nearly impossible task, to discover how to use the reverse Lightfinder to heal Lucius in three days. But he had done worse and harder before. He could manage this now.   
  
When he opened his eyes, Harry was as calm as he could be. He flicked his wand, and the door opened. Harry took his place in front of it, keeping his stance loose and relaxed. He supposed, depending on who it was, he might still have to fight, but he would do even that better from a relaxed state.   
  
*  
  
“I just want some proof that Potter is treating you right and doing something that doesn’t involve hurting you,” Pansy had said when Draco, after talking with her for part of the afternoon, had announced that he was going to see Harry.  
  
And nothing Draco could say would convince her otherwise. He tried to slip away, but the corridors weren’t shadowy enough around his room, and Astoria had only lifted her book in front of her face and sniffed audibly when Draco silently appealed to her for help. Of  _course_ she would decide that she could stand up to people when it came to the least convenient time for Draco, he thought in despair.  
  
Pansy at least looked startled when she heard Harry’s voice and saw the way his door opened. Perhaps she had thought he would begin by firing the Cruciatus at Draco.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes at her and walked through the door firmly in front of her. Harry nodded once at him, then raised his eyebrows as Pansy slipped in. He cocked his head and looked her up and down, then shrugged and turned to Draco.  
  
“You should know that your father came to me and accused me of not really being Voldemort,” he said.  
  
Draco felt as though he’d stepped abruptly on a staircase that had changed into a sliding ramp. His hand shot out, instinctively seeking for the railing. Harry caught it once and squeezed it before letting him go.  
  
“What did you do?” Draco whispered. He didn’t think Harry was good enough with Legilimency to manipulate things in his father’s mind so Lucius wouldn’t suspect anything more. And if he tried a Memory Charm, the force protecting him might do something about it.  
  
Harry gave him a soft half-smile. “Right now, he’s still here. I Stunned him and tried to put him into the Lightfinder to test it, but his magic reacted to it.” He glanced at Pansy for a fleeting second, then met Draco’s eyes.  
  
“She knows she has to keep the secrets she sees in here,” Draco said, and turned around and stared at her. “Since it would be pretty bad  _for me_ if this got out.”  
  
Pansy put her hands on her hips and stared at him for a second.  
  
“I have to keep them if I’m convinced—successfully—that Potter isn’t hurting you,” she said, and turned a challenging glare on Harry. “If you’re hurting him—and it sounds like imprisoning his father is doing it—then you’re going to die even if I have to make sure that I sacrifice my own soul in the process.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes, shaken. He hadn’t known Pansy was going to make that promise, and he tried to give Harry a pleading look, to tell him silently that he didn’t need to kill her, that Draco would make her understand the consequences somehow.  
  
But Harry was watching Pansy with a glint in his eyes that wasn’t antagonistic. In fact, he smiled as Draco watched, and not even the most suspicious Slytherin could have taken it for an insincere smile or one that promised danger instead of admiration.  
  
“You’d die to protect him,” Harry said quietly. “Yes, I can respect that. What I’m doing here is honestly pretty simple. I’m trying to make sure that I can learn enough to use the reverse Lightfinder easily, and Lucius has magic protecting him that might give me an insight. The magic comes from a promise sigil.”  
  
Pansy’s hands dropped off her hips, and she stared at Harry as if he was mad. Then she glanced wildly around.  
  
Harry waved his wand calmly, and the Disillusionment Charm Draco had half-noticed from the corner of his eye, and which he had assumed hid some of Harry’s secret ingredients for the Lightfinder, in case Death Eaters should intrude, melted. Into view came Lucius’s quietly breathing body.  
  
“He let you overpower him? When he has the magic being he made the promise to watching over him?” Pansy breathed the words, and then let her eyes dart over to Harry as though she wanted to see what his reaction to her insult would be.  
  
But Harry only shrugged as if he didn’t even notice the insult. He looked at Draco instead, apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’ll need to perform some magical tests on him. Basically use him as an—experimental subject for a while. I don’t want to, but I think it’s the only way I’m going to learn what I need to do.”  
  
He hesitated. Then he added, “Ignis manifested from the promise sigil on his wrist.”  
  
Draco wanted to hiss at him not to say the name, but he realized, as Pansy gasped aloud, that this was good in at least one way. And then his brain caught up with his ears, and he relaxed. If Ignis had already manifested and Harry knew about him, then it was going to be all right.  
  
And, of course, Harry had to tell some things to Pansy because Draco was still under the spell his father had cast that would prevent him from telling Pansy some things unless she, too, tortured him. That wasn’t an experience Draco was particularly eager to repeat.  
  
“Lucius made a promise for help to escape Azkaban,” Harry told Pansy directly. He was keeping one eye on Draco all the time, and Draco nodded back. He understood the measured way Harry had to speak, and that was only partially because of Pansy. Ignis might be watching them, and might take offense to some of what Harry said. “I don’t know exactly what it entailed because I’ve never heard of promise sigils before.”  
  
“I have,” said Pansy, and her face was pale. “I know about them. I wondered why Mr—Mr. Malfoy was acting so strange. I think I know now.”  
  
Harry nodded, and Draco could see him relaxing. “Good. Well, it’s possible I may be able to use the reverse Lightfinder to learn some things from him. I need to work out some problems with it and the transformations it causes.” For some reason, he looked at the window, but he looked back before Draco could ask what the matter was.   
  
“I have three days.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes.   
  
He knew what Harry meant, although Harry couldn’t speak the truth aloud out of fear that Ignis was listening. He knew Harry meant that he had three days to fix Father’s mind. And that would be it.  
  
“But you’ll keep either of them from hurting Draco?” Pansy asked. “This Ignis or his father?”  
  
Draco blinked at her rapidly. He hadn’t realized she was  _that_ committed to protection of him.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, and his voice was quiet and calm and very gentle.  
  
“Good,” said Pansy. She was standing straight again. She looked once at Draco, nodded, and said, “I believe him now.” Then she stepped out of the room.  
  
Draco held Harry’s eyes. “Three days, huh?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Draco nodded. “Then let’s get started.”


	32. Three Tremendous Days

“What can I do to help?” Draco asked quietly, when they had shut Pansy out and it was only the two of them in Harry’s little lab. Well, the two of them and his father, who was still unconscious and breathing deeply.  
  
For a moment, Harry stood looking into the fire. Draco watched the way his eyes glittered and his hands flexed, and he felt a fierce love working through him. He blinked and glanced off to the side.  
  
“You can calm your mother down,” Harry said at last. “It would be a huge imposition if I had to stop work because she decided to interfere.”  
  
Draco felt the need to defend his mother. “As long as someone tells her what’s going on, then she won’t.”  
  
“Then I need you to tell her what’s going on.” Harry caught Draco’s hand and turned to stare at him, and Draco felt as though his lungs had no more need of air. “Please. I wouldn’t know the right words to say.”  
  
Draco grimaced. It was something that had to be done, of course, and he might even understand why better than Harry did, but he had wanted to do something more active. “And that’s all?”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and turned towards the reverse Lightfinder. “There’s something else,” he said after a moment. “Come over here.”  
  
Draco stepped forwards curiously. The Lightfinder had a hum of power around it that soared as he approached it. He reached out with one hand, and kept an eye on Harry. Harry nodded, so Draco let his hand brush over the wood of the doorway. Nothing happened, and he continued on to the metal bar, and then, in a rush of daring, up to the dark glass globe.  
  
There was a surge of power for an instant that clenched Draco’s teeth like the Cruciatus Curse had when it was channeled through his body—but there was no pain in this. It simply felt as though someone had sealed him to a blast of energy. It let him go a minute later, and he staggered back and shook his head. Power was sparking behind his teeth.  
  
“What was  _that_?” he asked, and looked at Harry.  
  
Harry, whose own eyes were wide as though he hadn’t intended this to happen, but Draco thought it was with happiness, even joy. He reached out and brushed a hand down the globe. No current of power seemed to bind him there. Well, maybe he was used to it.  
  
“That confirms something,” he said, and looked at Draco again in turn. The power that surrounded the machine seemed to rise up around him, although maybe that was only Draco’s own dazed senses, demanding an explanation for what had happened. “When I used the Lightfinder on a conjured snake earlier, it turned it into this rainbow winged snake. I let it fly out the window. And then—then I couldn’t touch Lucius to the Lightfinder at all, even when he was unconscious, until Ignis appeared and gave me permission. Your magic just  _blends_ with it. I think—I think I made it so that the reverse Lightfinder’s magic reacts to how friendly the creature feels towards me.”  
  
“But I don’t actually share your magic,” Draco said, his mind leaping. He had heard of theories of shared magic; it was one reason that identical twins could so often use each other’s wands, and sometimes wands could be inherited by family members. And something like the snake,  _made_ from Harry’s spell in the first place, would get spectacular results from the Lightfinder. “I mean—I’m close to you, but that’s not the same thing.”  
  
“I know.” Harry smiled at him and stepped closer. “But what if it’s not just sharing magic? What if it’s how friendly the one with the magic feels towards me? Lucius is my enemy, and that’s why he resisted the power so well. The snake was mine and would do whatever I wanted. Although I have to figure out what made it change into the rainbow snake instead of the unicorn foal I was trying for.” He shrugged. “And you’re my lover.”  
  
Draco basked in that word for as long as he thought he could permit himself to, and then nodded sternly. “Right. And that means I should be able to help you more with the Lightfinder, if you want me to.”  
  
From the way Harry went still and looked at him. Draco thought he had said something wrong. But instead, Harry made a flourishing gesture with one hand and whispered, “Even if it means manhandling your father around sometimes?”  
  
Draco lifted his head. “Even then.”  
  
Harry blinked once, closed his eyes fast, opened them, and then murmured, “Why don’t you go to your mother, first, and make sure that she knows the truth and won’t intervene. Then you can come back, and help me.”  
  
Draco smiled at him, brushed his fingertips along Harry’s arm like a kiss, and then left the room. He knew he would have to explain certain things to his mother that he didn’t look forward to explaining, and not only because she had wanted them to leave already. He knew he would have to explain them to Pansy and Astoria sometime, too.  
  
With the feeling that he was walking on glassy air, he didn’t give a damn.  
  
*  
  
Harry hesitated, looking at the reverse Lightfinder. He didn’t want to conduct any tests with Lucius until Draco got back, but at the same time, he didn’t want to waste a moment of those three days that Ignis had granted him. Perhaps he could use some of the time to figure out why he had ended up with a rainbow serpent.  
  
Hermione would tell him to start with basic questions and work his way out from there, instead of trying to answer the most complicated one first. Harry sat down.  
  
 _Why did I want a unicorn foal? What did the reverse Lightfinder actually do?_  
  
Well, the second one might still be too complex. Harry shook his head, uneasy, and turned back to the first one.  
  
He had wanted a unicorn foal because it was a symbol of the Light. Because it was impressive. Because he had already showed the cobra “transforming” into one in front of the Death Eaters, and he had wanted to prepare for the moment when illusions wouldn’t be enough and he would have to show off the reality.  
  
But did it have to be a unicorn foal? Although how a nonexistent creature could represent the Light, he didn’t know.  
  
Then Harry snorted. He was fooling himself. He would have thought, when he was still unbothered by the Ministry’s political definitions of Light and Dark, that something that shone all the colors of the rainbow was pretty Light. And the snake had grown in intelligence at the same time, but it hadn’t attacked him, or tried to destroy anything in the room in the pursuit of getting out. It had simply wanted to leave.  
  
 _What if…_  
  
Harry cocked his head, almost afraid of scaring the thought off.  
  
 _What if the Lightfinder created something I desired, something that would be a symbol of the Light and something impressive, but just didn’t touch on a unicorn foal? It was answering some of my desires. Not all of them._  
  
Harry sat up slowly. Yes, maybe that was the answer. Maybe he couldn’t expect the reverse Lightfinder to do  _exactly_ what he wanted, but he could expect it to do  _something like_ he wanted.  
  
This time, he conjured the ball python with even more enthusiasm, and sent it writhing over to the reverse Lightfinder and commanded it to look into the globe with bated breath. The same sense of light in reverse came welling out of the dark globe and enveloped the snake, but this time, Harry didn’t intend to look away.  
  
And this time, the light moved more languorously, and lengthened the snake’s neck and tail and gave it legs in a delicious shimmer. Harry reached out and stroked the magic around the edge of the machine as it worked, and nodded. It felt different than it had even before. It felt more like him, as if he was shaking his own hand or looking at his reflection in the Mirror of Erised. The reverse Lightfinder  _did_ do what he desired. It just didn’t interpret the word “desire” in the same way Harry had.  
  
By the time the light faded in another starburst, there was a small dragon standing in the reverse Lightfinder. It spread its wings slowly and calmly, and let Harry admire the tiny, overlapping purple scales along its neck and spine, combined with shimmering silver ones on its leg and face so polished that Harry could almost see himself in them, like a mirror. The wings and the paws glowed green, but not the poisonous green of the  _Avada Kedavra_. It was a glad, forest green that reminded Harry of what the Hogwarts grounds looked like after rain.  
  
“You’re a pretty thing,” said Harry quietly. “If gaudy.”  
  
He had assumed the dragon would want to leave, too, and nodded to the open window, but instead, the dragon stepped off the Lightfinder and trotted over to him. Harry picked it up and held it. It was heavier than it looked, as if it was really made of those amethysts and silver and emeralds instead of muscles and scales. It leaned against him and sighed, glowing warm through its bones.  
  
“What am I going to do to you?” Harry asked.  
  
The dragon, which was about the size of a large dog, didn’t seem to think that was an important question. It struggled after a second, and Harry cleared off the top of a table and put it down. It went to sleep, its muzzle resting on its tail.  
  
Draco came in a second later, not bothering to knock. Harry looked at him and tried to control the smile that wanted to spread across his face. Really, he should scold Draco for such a dangerous habit.  
  
But the look of amazement on Draco’s face as he came to a stop and stared at the dragon was worth it. He cleared his throat and spoke a second later, but without managing to look away from the dragon. “Mother says that she’ll support us. Although she still wants to take me away from here if Father wakes up and starts trying to hurt me.”  
  
“He won’t.” Harry reached out and floated Lucius into the air, bringing him near the Lightfinder again. This time, although the whine from his own clashing magic and Lucius’s still set his teeth on edge, it didn’t prevent him from laying Lucius on the metal bar. “I need you to work with me now.”  
  
“All right,” said Draco. “How?”  
  
“Lay your hand on my right arm, and then your other hand on his hair.” Harry nodded to the floating hair that hung down under Lucius’s head. “I’m going to see if the touch of someone connected to both of us will make it less painful for him, or more.”  
  
Draco’s eyes flashed over to him for a second, but then he seemed to remember that Harry had to keep up a certain pretense of being willing to hurt Lucius if they were going to fool Ignis. He nodded, and did as Harry had suggested. Harry narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t _sure,_ but he thought there had been a reduction in the loud, buzzing magic hovering around Lucius’s body.  
  
“Lean more on me,” he suggested. “And think about how much you don’t want him to be hurt.” He didn’t know yet if anyone’s desires besides his own could affect the reverse Lightfinder’s, but it was worth a try.  
  
Draco obliged, and for a second, Harry looked in admiration at his screwed-shut mouth and eyes, and felt the pressure on his arm with wonder. Then he looked away, and watched instead the small lightning bolts surging around Lucius’s body.  
  
 _Body,_ he told himself a second later.  _Not corpse._  
  
The magic died down a second later, and Harry nodded. “That’s the first test over with, then,” he muttered. “Good. Now we only have about three hundred to conduct.”   
  
He looked at Draco, only to find Draco looking calmly back at him, so steady that Harry wanted to hug him.  
  
“We’d better get started then,” said Draco, and rolled his neck a little. “Hadn’t we.”  
  
*  
  
Draco knew Harry had told the other Death Eaters something, some reason to justify their staying in his private rooms so long. He knew Greyback had been sent out to spread the word, and Pansy. Pansy went only reluctantly, and only after Draco’s mother came up and spoke to her.   
  
Draco might have been insulted by Pansy’s lack of trust if he’d had  _time_ to be insulted.  
  
But instead, he only had the time to suggest experiments, and keep notes, and come up with new ideas when the old ones didn’t work, and snatch moments of sleep and food out of the chaos of constant theorizing. He felt as if someone had crept inside his brain and pummeled it. This was harder than any—than  _any_ thing, really. Harder than coming up with ways to try and keep his family safe during the war. Harder than coming up with answers to the impossible extra homework that Professor Snape had sometimes assigned him, to test his “real talent in Potions.”  
  
But what he stood to lose if he didn’t do the work would be harder. So he did it.  
  
Harry had Draco cast spells on Lucius, on the dark globe of the Lightfinder and all the other parts of it, and on himself. Then he had Draco put his hands on the globe and stand there while the lightning played around him and snapped and snarled in concert with the magic that accepted Draco because he was so close to Harry.  
  
Draco had to admit he wouldn’t like to go through the reverse Lightfinder, and it was only partially because he had to watch his father’s body being manipulated to go through it. He didn’t know if Harry realized how much power he had poured into the thing.  
  
Harry cast some spells himself, and put more conjured snakes than Draco could count through the bloody doorway. All of them changed into some kind of Light creature, although all of them except the dragon Draco had seen when he first came into the room after convincing his mother left. The dragon simply stayed sleeping in the midst of it all, now and then waking to stalk around the room or eat a bit of Harry and Draco’s sandwiches. Then it would start slumbering again, often right on top of the book or parchment Draco needed. He got used to moving it, though.  
  
Harry broke off pieces of the Lightfinder and rebuilt them. He turned Lucius so he was floating upright, upside-down, and backwards. He scribbled new notes and then immediately tried them out without even telling Draco what his notes meant.  
  
Draco could put up with it, but he did hope that his mother didn’t come in now, for more reasons than one.  
  
Through it all, Lucius stayed serenely asleep, his head bobbing to the side now and then when he had to be moved. He never seemed hurt, though. Draco asked for nutrient potions, and if it caused some confusion among the Death Eaters, Greyback seemed happy to make them, or steal them, and bring them to the door to hand them over.  
  
Individual memories stood out like stars in the endless flow of moments, cracks in a pane of glass.  
  
Draco remembered being bent over under his father’s full weight, because Harry had ended the Levitation Charm just in case that magic was interfering with the Lightfinder. Harry himself was pacing in a circle around Draco, waving his wand and chanting the same syllable over and over. Maybe it was an incantation, but if so, it wasn’t one that Draco had ever heard of.  
  
The most irritating thing about that memory, honestly, was the trickle of sweat into his eyes that he couldn’t wipe away.  
  
And he remembered the moment when Harry stepped back, flicked his wand down, and muttered, “If  _this_ doesn’t work, then I’ll know something’s wrong.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to ask what he was going to do differently that he hadn’t done the other seven times before, but a silent explosion of blue light filled the room, and Draco passed out.  
  
He opened his eyes—another memory—to Harry cradling his head and muttering nonsense. Draco waited a long moment before clearing his throat, enjoying being cared for too much to want it to stop.  
  
“What were you trying to do?” he asked.  
  
“Change Lucius’s magic,” said Harry, and his eyes flickered in a way that Draco knew he meant, specifically, the link his father had with Ignis through the promise sigil, not something in his magical core. “I thought I could try the power of blue.”  
  
It wasn’t until long afterwards that Draco figured that one out. Blue was the color of water and frost, either one of which might have seemed like Ignis’s opposite to a desperate Harry.  
  
The memories marched past. Harry, stooping over Lucius with his wand in his hand and a look of crazed determination on his face. Harry, scribbling on a parchment with his wand aimed at the reverse Lightfinder, almost jabbing at it in irritation.  
  
And Harry swearing and stepping back to kick a table when something didn’t work. Actually, Draco thought that memory repeated more than once. A lot of the things Harry had tried were failing.  
  
But the memory he held of the end of the process,  _that_ one was clear and not in danger of being confused with any other.   
  
It was the afternoon of the third day.  
  
*  
  
Harry was starting to go cold inside, and he refused to believe that was only because his hands hurt and his brow ran with sweat and his eyes burned with exhaustion in a way that couldn’t warm him. He knew a lot of it was also the magic he had cast, and the despair that was starting to eat its way through his stomach.  
  
The deadline that Ignis had given them was nearly past, and they were no nearer the chance to crack the riddle.   
  
 _Maybe Ignis was willing to let us try at all because it knew what would happen,_ Harry thought bitterly, and stopped to stretch his muscles and listen to the chorus of complaints from the middle of his back especially. He seemed to have forgotten how to sit or lie down. All he’d done was stoop and hunch and crouch and walk.  _Maybe there’s no way to solve this in three days._  
  
 _Or at all._  
  
But that would only mean giving up, and Harry still wasn’t ready to do that. He shook his head and focused on the reverse Lightfinder again.  
  
So far, it had done things he wanted, but not in any order. Harry had thought he sincerely wanted Lucius cured, but it had turned out that he wanted things like the weight eased—so Lucius had started levitating at one point after Harry had taken away the Levitation Charm—and the magic to stop reacting so horribly and Draco to be able to rest more. At one point, Draco had nodded off to sleep the minute he touched the dark glass globe, even though he’d just been complaining that he couldn’t imagine sleeping until Lucius was healed.  
  
 _You have to discipline your mind,_ Harry thought savagely at himself.  _Think_.  
  
Then he snorted at himself in turn.  _You sound like Snape. And that’s not going to get you any closer to a solution, if all you can do is think about your failures._  
  
He turned and looked at Draco. Draco was leaning against the wall with his arms folded as if he needed his elbows against the wood to keep him awake. At the moment, with the way he was staring, it might be true.  
  
Yearning cut like a lightning bolt through Harry, yearning that hurt with how strong it was.   
  
 _I want to help him. I want to make sure that nothing can ever hurt him again._  
  
And there it was. There was the perfect moment of desire, because Harry knew the only thing that would  _really_ help Draco was curing Lucius. Narcissa would leave and take Draco with her unless Harry could produce some kind of convincing proof.  
  
 _And the only possible proof is reality._  
  
Harry shook his head and stood up. “Draco.” His voice crackled with authority that must have surprised Draco, from the way he turned his head and fastened surprised eyes on Harry. “Come over here.”  
  
Draco pushed himself off the wall and staggered over. Harry seized him and hauled him around ruthlessly until he stood next to the reverse Lightfinder. He hated to do this, but too much compassion would change what he wanted, and result in another failure.  
  
“Put your arm here,” he said, and rested Draco’s elbow on the dark glass globe. Then he positioned Lucius so he was floating in front of it, his face almost pressed against the glass. Draco was blinking, hardly seeming awake now. “Get ready to cast  _Incendio_ at the glass when I tell you to. Understand?”  
  
“You want to destroy the glass?” Draco’s glossy eyes stared at him.  
  
“This isn’t going to destroy it,” Harry told him impatiently. “You need to cast it.  _Can_ you?”  
  
Draco nodded slowly. Harry nodded back, then turned and manipulated the Levitation Charm a little more so Lucius’s face  _was_ touching the globe. Then, holding onto the pure burning of his purpose, he snapped at Draco, “Let it go.”  
  
“ _Incendio_ ,” Draco said, nearly as strongly as Harry thought  _he_ could have.  
  
The crackle of energy through the glass globe was so strong that Harry was flung off his feet. But he had done what he needed to do. Lucius’s face was against the globe, and what Harry wanted, the reverse Lightfinder did. The dark globe spat its shadow-light at the same moment, and willed the fire of transformation into Lucius’s body.  
  
Except that Lucius’s body was  _already_ being consumed from within by magical fire, and the two forces clashed and made Harry’s teeth hurt.  
  
Harry watched in breathless silence as the fires writhed and danced around Lucius. The spell, amplified by the reverse Lightfinder and Harry’s desire and the spell being cast by someone connected to both Harry and Lucius, and the fire of Ignis, enveloped Lucius in a swirling sheath, and then moved down and concentrated around the wrist that bore that promise sigil. Harry grabbed his own shirt sleeve and sent more desire at the machine, if that would help.  
  
This was the moment when he saw what had gone wrong before. He had been trying to want to cure Lucius. He had either been distracted by petty desires and needs, or he hadn’t been able to want it enough.  
  
What he needed to want was…  
  
To help Draco.  
  
There was a horrible noise, a stink of burning flesh that made Draco lunge forwards crying, and Harry grab him. Draco was shouting about how he would never forgive Harry if Harry had murdered his father, and Harry was trying to shout that he  _knew_ that, but he thought—  
  
And then the promise sigil began to crisp and peel away in shining dark strips from Lucius’s wrist. The paler skin went first, then the swollen silver stuff, like an invisible snake turning inside out.  
  
There was one more flare.  
  
Lucius dropped to the floor, pure and whole and breathing, his head resting on the flank of the small dragon, which turned, gave him a single look, and went back to sleep. 


	33. Machines of Desire

Lucius opened his eyes with a start. Harry moved a little to the side. He wanted to make sure that the first person Lucius saw was Draco.  
  
Lucius lifted a trembling hand, and Draco came over and knelt beside him. He didn’t try to touch his father until Lucius put his hand on his forehead. Harry watched hopefully. He thought it was a good sign that Lucius had reached for Draco first instead of patting at his wrist and looking for the promise sigil.  
  
 _Thought_ it was a good sign. He had to admit he didn’t really know for sure.  
  
“Son?” Lucius whispered.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco steadily. “We cured you, Father. Brought you out of the contractual binding that you suffered to—the power you promised yourself to.” Behind him, Harry nodded. They both thought Ignis knew perfectly well what had happened, but it was still better not to attract its attention by speaking the name.  
  
Lucius shut his eyes and remained still. Harry carefully made sure that his wand was close to hand. He wasn’t going to hurt Lucius, not after all the effort he had put into healing him, but, well. Neither was he stupid.  
  
Surprisingly, Lucius spoke to him first, over Draco. “I know that you’re not the Dark Lord.”  
  
Harry leaned in. He had prepared for this, at least, since there had been no indication that the Lightfinder could remove memories. “And now you also owe me for not letting your sanity be consumed with your body. I’m claiming the debt. Keep quiet about this.”  
  
Lucius opened his eyes, and they were almost feverish. “Why? Why pretend to be him?”  
  
Draco snorted. Harry smiled at him. He knew Lucius Malfoy wasn’t stupid, but there seemed to be special, limited circumstances where he  _did_ have a lack of brains, and situations concerning Voldemort were one of them.  
  
“What?” Lucius demanded sullenly.  
  
“When a bunch of Death Eaters invaded my home and I’d already used the excuse that there was a shard of Voldemort’s soul influencing my actions, to explain why I looked ‘Dark’ to the Lightfinder?” Harry spread his hands, enjoying it, meanly, when Lucius flinched. “What else would I do?”  
  
“Plus I helped him set up the deception,” Draco added. “And after that, he had no choice but to go along with it.”  
  
Lucius touched his throat. Harry imagined him thinking of all the other choices  _he_ would have come up with. But what came out of Lucius’s mouth next wasn’t a lecture or even more of a demand for an explanation.  
  
“How are we to redeem our family name now?”  
  
Draco looked to Harry instead of immediately giving an explanation. Harry nodded once and said, “Well, I don’t know that you can make up for escaping Azkaban. You’ll probably have to go back. But if things work out as I hope, then the Death Eaters will either end up dispersed and harmless or actually arrested. Draco’s helping me with that. The Malfoy name might end up with some improvement from that, if not from  _your_  actions.”  
  
Lucius sat the rest of the way up, and the look in his eyes now made Harry all the more uneasy. “I will not return to Azkaban.”  
  
Draco caught Harry’s gaze and made a little flick of his fingers behind his back. It said so clearly not to argue about Lucius with this that Harry took the hint. But that didn’t mean he could simply give up handling Lucius in his own way, or leave him free to run around and cause trouble.  
  
He met Lucius’s eyes and smiled. Lucius seemed to snap back to reality, or at least away from whatever horrible visions of Azkaban haunted him, because he stared at Harry with narrowed eyes.   
  
“These,” said Harry softly, moving his arm in a sweep around his quarters, “are my private rooms. Where I managed to build a machine capable of defeating an elemental force of magic that you foolishly sold yourself to. All the while maintaining a pretense in front of the Death Eaters and bringing them under my control.” He leaned slowly forwards. “You would oppose me at your peril.  _Don’t you think_.”  
  
Lucius blanched, blinked, then sneered at him. “I saw through your deception in part because you never practiced the torture that the Dark Lord did,” he said. “And would you torture the father of an ally?”  
  
Harry slowly rose to his feet and sauntered towards Lucius. Then he bent down towards him and tapped him on the nose. Draco simply watched, although Harry could see from the drawn lines around his mouth how much he hated this.  
  
“I don’t need to torture people now,” Harry told Lucius casually. “I have the reverse Lightfinder. Which can let me literally change a person’s mind and nature.”  
  
Lucius stilled. It was probably a small thing to someone who wasn’t that familiar with him, Harry thought, but he had learned some of the natural reactions of Lucius’s body in the three days he’d worked with him. He was breathing through his nose now, his eyes locked on Harry’s face as if he could find some secret lever to press. “You did not change mine.”  
  
“I freed you from the power you swore yourself to.” Harry supposed he should have known better than to expect any thanks for that. He moved in another step, until Lucius had to crane his neck back to meet him eye-to-eye. “That was the task I was concentrating on then.”  
  
Draco moved a little, but not enough to attract Lucius’s attention, and Harry was glad. The last thing they needed to do right now was bring up technicalities.  
  
“What do you think I could do,” Harry whispered, gently, “if I was concentrating on sculpting you into nothing but an obedient slave?”  
  
Lucius closed his eyes, breathing rapidly. Harry stepped back and sat down. Draco stood about halfway between Harry and his father, looking at both of them as if the mere act of looking would change something.  
  
“I will not tell the others that you are not the Dark Lord,” Lucius said at last, with obvious reluctance, opening his eyes. “But I will not go back to Azkaban.”  
  
“Are you going to oppose me in other ways?” At the moment, whether Lucius could be sent back to prison wasn’t the foremost threat on Harry’s mind. Lucius could still stir up trouble among the Death Eaters in ways not connected to telling them Harry’s secret.  
  
Lucius gave a few violent twitches. His fingers curled in his lap. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Not at the moment.” He looked at Harry with almost dead eyes. “But I am a pure-blood. We are skilled at noticing gaps in power. If I can see them, then I will seek to fill them, the same as any other pure-blood in the ranks of the Death Eaters will.”  
  
Draco stepped back towards Harry. Harry read the silent plea on his lips. He didn’t want his father tortured or crippled.  
  
Harry wouldn’t have done that anyway. He had another plan that should answer just as well, and which he had already used once before.  
  
“Very well,” he said. His wand cut down in the motion of the spell, familiar as never before now with all the creatures he’d conjured to test in the Lightfinder. “ _Serpensortia_.”  
  
The creature that appeared was a slim viper this time, gleaming black with yellow eyes. Harry hissed, not bothering to look at Lucius as he did, “ _Take up a guard position at his ankle. Follow him at all times. Be ready to bite him if he ever attacks me_.”  
  
The viper moved towards Lucius and curled up at his ankle. Lucius stared at it, then at Harry. His face was pale.  _Probably from hearing me speak Parseltongue._  
  
“That’s a particularly poisonous snake,” Harry told Lucius cheerily. “You won’t die if it bites you, but you’ll be in agony for a good few days. And it has orders to attack you if you ever attack me.” He paused, then added, “Keep in mind that I’m defining ‘attack’ pretty broadly.”  
  
Lucius looked as if he would snarl for a second, but either good sense or a pleading look from Draco kept him silent. He stood up unsteadily and put a hand over his stomach. “Nutrient potions, I assume?” he asked Draco.  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
“Then I will have a true meal, and seek out your mother.” Lucius paused to stare at Harry again. “You gave a snake to Arsinoe Rosier as well. The Death Eaters seeing me will think that you favor me.”  
  
“They’ll think that I kept you out of sight for three days because of particularly important information you had to  _impart_  to me,” Harry said, stressing the word just enough to make Lucius flinch. “And then I reinstated you. It’s up to you what lies you spin. Simply keep in mind that broad definition of ‘attack.’”  
  
Lucius looked at him for a moment longer. Harry had his hand on his wand, and he didn’t move. Then Lucius snorted and moved towards the door again. “Come, Draco.”  
  
Draco hesitated. Harry waved him on quickly. He didn’t want Draco to think he had to choose Harry over his family.  
  
Luckily, Lucius didn’t seem to notice. He just opened the door and walked out. Draco followed behind, giving Harry a quick, strained smile. Harry nodded back, and then turned to the jeweled dragon as they closed the door.  
  
“What can I do to get more like you?” he asked. “And what are you useful for?”  
  
The dragon rolled on its back.  
  
*  
  
“You should not have done something so foolish,” said Draco’s mother, with a slow breath between the two halves of the sentence. Draco thought she was holding back some harsher words.  
  
His father stood there and said nothing. Draco couldn’t remember ever seeing him so silent. Lucius stood with his hands dangling at his sides and his head turned slightly, as though he was watching some kind of fascinating illusion on the wall.  
  
Narcissa closed her eyes. Her silence combated Lucius’s silence, Draco thought, until he turned his gaze back to her.  
  
“Perhaps in a short while,” said Narcissa, “you’ll be ready to tell me why you did it.” And she turned and swished away, disappearing out of the room into the next one.  
  
Draco cleared his throat awkwardly. It was the first time he had been alone with his father since Lucius had awakened, and he had no idea what to say to him. Especially with the secret of his true loyalty burning away inside him.  
  
He was grateful that Harry, with his help, had managed to reawaken his father, and more than grateful that Lucius wasn’t going to die by being burned alive by Ignis. But he had no idea what else to do. He wasn’t going to join his father in endless efforts to redeem the Malfoy name that might never work. He wouldn’t plot against Harry for him. He thought that particular promise sigil the height of stupidity.  
  
“Why did you join him? The truth, now.”  
  
Draco glanced back at Lucius and narrowed his eyes until he hoped that he looked as intimidating as Harry might, under the same circumstances. “Why do you assume that what we told you isn’t the truth?”  
  
“Because no Malfoy,” said Lucius, and he was spinning his wand in his fingers the way he had used to spin a watch chain when Draco was younger, “would be so subservient as that story implies.”  
  
Draco felt as though someone had set off a small explosion in his chest. He took a long, stiff step forwards. His father narrowed his eyes and raised his wand. But Draco’s was out faster, and he held it with as much rage as desire to use it.  
  
“You’re going to  _say_ that,” Draco said slowly. “Really? When you bowed and kissed that  _monster’s_ robes, and you’re the whole reason I have  _this_ embedded in my flesh?” He yanked up his robe sleeve to show the Dark Mark.  
  
Lucius’s mouth fell a little open, and he looked human and lost. Draco was viciously glad to see it. Someone besides him should.  
  
“What are you—Draco, you were the one who chose to become a Death Eater after I went to prison.” Lucius was looking at him searchingly. “And you know decisions had been made when I was much younger that would have aligned our family with the Dark Lord anyway. Your grandfather angered enough of the prominent families who followed Dumbledore that we wouldn’t have gained any political power allying with them.”  
  
Draco shook his head. At some point, he would have believed that. Hell, he  _had_ believed it for a long time. He had thought he was the one who had failed, who hadn’t saved his parents. Had spent his whole seventh year believing that. And since the Ministry had tried him, apparently let him go, and then started hunting for him again the minute he Apparated, he had felt even more like a failure. A true Malfoy would have made them  _pay_.  
  
But now he was sick of taking the blame for mistakes his father had made. And he had new evidence on his side.  
  
“You swore yourself to the Dark Lord,” he said. “No matter what your father did.” Lucius jumped, as if he hated the reminder that Abraxas was his father as much as he was Draco’s grandfather. “And then you swore yourself to the force that got you out of prison. Is that all you can think of to do when something doesn’t go your way, Father? Swear yourself to someone else who’ll protect you? And tell yourself that it doesn’t really mean that you’re giving up your power and your freedom, that it just means you have  _no choice_?” He imitated his father in a high, breathless voice.  
  
“Draco.” Lucius’s voice was tight, one arm drawn in towards his chest in pain. “I at least chose powerful patrons. You swore yourself to  _Potter_.”  
  
Draco caught his breath. There was a notion in his mind that he should encourage his father to believe that, deceive him into thinking that Harry controlled Draco. It would certainly make him less dangerous, because he would be running around to counter plots that didn’t exist.  
  
But in the end, Draco couldn’t do it. He simply shook his head and murmured, “It says a lot about you that you think we’re master and servant instead of allies.”  
  
Lucius lifted one hand as though he wanted Draco to look at the promise sigil that was no longer there. “The man I saw in that room takes no allies. Not even servants. Only slaves.”  
  
Draco’s anger was gone, though, leaving the dust of its huge explosion in his chest. He sighed and put his wand away. Lucius’s words about Harry couldn’t trouble him. He simply knew too much of Harry, far more than his father did.  
  
“Like I said,” he whispered, “it says a lot about you. I took risks to rescue you, too, you know. But why did Harry save your life and bring you back? Did you think about that?”  
  
“Because he wanted to get rid of an enemy.” Lucius said it as though it was the simplest thing in the world.  
  
 _To him, it is_. Draco slowly shook his head. “I had to participate in bringing you back. I never would have if I thought it was better for you to die. To die  _free_ , of a choice that you at least made yourself.”  
  
Lucius looked at him with blank eyes.  
  
“He did it because he knows you’re important to  _me_ ,” said Draco. He turned around and walked out.  
  
He could hope his father would think on the words. If he couldn’t take them to heart and use them to turn his behavior around…  
  
 _Let him at least use them to stop acting so ridiculous._  
  
*  
  
Harry sauntered into the Death Eater meeting the next day with the dragon strolling behind him. Lucius was already there, with his snake-guardian. Harry was relieved to see that Narcissa was also with him. She might do more to keep the snake from biting Lucius than Lucius would do.  
  
There was a low murmur of excitement and speculation at the sight of the dragon. Harry ignored it, and climbed onto his throne, then held out a commanding arm. The dragon spread its wings and leaped lightly into the air, settling on the throne’s arm beside Harry and putting its head on his shoulder. So far, it had shown a disinclination to fly, as if its wings were mostly there to be pretty decorations.  
  
But it was still a dragon, no matter how small it was. Harry could see a few of the Death Eaters trading glances, like the Lestrange brothers. Greyback seemed to be alternating between impressed and trying to figure out if the dragon was going to take his place as Voldemort’s pet.  
  
Parkinson was the one who had the courage to call out, “What is that, my lord?”  
  
At least the title didn’t sound forced this time, or as if she was trying to choke to death on her own spit when she said it. Harry smiled at her and stroked the dragon, marveling at the warmth that poured from it. It was like holding his hand over a fire all the time. Of course, the dragon might  _breathe_ fire. He didn’t know yet.  
  
“This is a product of the reverse Lightfinder,” he said, and sharpened his voice, turning to Draco. “Tell me, Mr.  _Malfoy_. If you looked at this creature, what kind of magic would you say it had an affinity with, Dark or Light?”  
  
Draco’s eyes gleamed. He enjoyed the chance to play a part in this game, Harry knew, the game of tricking the Death Eaters into betraying themselves. He leaned forwards and pretended to study the dragon gravely.  
  
“I would say, my Lord,” he said, in the judicious tone that he had sometimes used to answer questions in Potions class, “that it was a creature of Light. Look at the bright colors. Like the rainbow that appeared around the original Lightfinder, which they certainly thought indicated someone was Light.” He smiled at Harry.  
  
Harry gave him a sharper smile, warning him silently that they couldn’t act too pleasant to each other in front of the Death Eaters, and turned to face their gaping audience. “Well? And the rest of you?”  
  
“Light, my Lord.” That was Greyback, cringingly eager as usual to make himself useful and approved. “The way it shines! And the way it’s acting. Tame, not all charging around the place like a usual dragon.”  
  
Harry thought he was the only one who noticed the dragon’s jeweled, transparent eyelids rise a little at that. The dragon didn’t appreciate being thought of as tame or a pet.  
  
It also meant the dragon could understand English, even better than Harry had anticipated. He sneered a little and stroked the dragon’s spine.  
  
“Yes. Certainly Light wizards have published tomes on how, if a dragon is ever tamed, it will be with Light magic and compassion and  _kindness_.” He thought he did a good impression of making it sound like the word was etched in contempt on his brain. “They would never think that a Dark wizard could control one.  
  
“But watch!” he added, and held out his arm.  
  
The dragon gave him a long-suffering expression that Harry hoped he was the only one to be able to read, and hopped up on his arm. Then it rose to its hind legs, where it stood on one and raised its tail, canting its neck back at the same time so its nose touched its tail.  
  
More murmurs came out of the audience. Harry focused on letting only his smugness and triumph through, and looked around the room with a smarmy smile.  
  
Lucius had an expression that suggested his wife’s elbow was poised near his ribs. That was fine with Harry.  _Whatever she has to do to make sure that he keeps silent._  
  
“That’s wonderful, my Lord!” Greyback honestly looked as if he’d like to spring up on the throne alongside the dragon and give Harry big sloppy kisses. “Did you do that to make it show its obedience?”  
  
 _Sometimes I don’t think I could make Greyback give better cues if he was collaborating with me._ “I did indeed,” said Harry, and slowly lowered his arm until the dragon got the hint and took off with large flaps of its wings, heading up to the ceiling, where it clung to a rafter. A few people stared up at it, but most were focused on him. “I can make the reverse Lightfinder do what I want.”  
  
 _With desire and help, I can._  But part of the whole point was that they didn’t need to know that. Harry clasped his hands and stared down the Death Eaters.  
  
“I intend to test the reverse Lightfinder in the field in a few days,” he said, with calmness that they could take as unthreatening if they wanted to. He hoped that most of them wouldn’t be that stupid. “I will change a large group of Light wizards into Dark ones. But we need a way to test them and make sure they are  _truly_ Light.” He smirked and leaned forwards. “Find me wizards who were in the crowd when their weakling Lightfinder exploded, the ones the Ministry had approved by testing them. Taunt them. Show yourselves as if you had a hideout nearby, lure the Aurors, create a distraction, do whatever you must.  _Bring them here_.”   
  
Greyback yipped in excitement, and other voices took up the shout. Harry smiled at them all and held up his arm for the dragon, which did look impressive flying down to him.  
  
Meanwhile, his heart was trembling hard enough that he thought it might threaten his façade by itself.  
  
But he had done what he wanted.


	34. On the Edge of Trust

“I have made my decision,” said Narcissa so abruptly that Draco started and dropped his fork.  
  
He was having a private dinner with his parents in Narcissa’s room. The Death Eaters seemed the most cautious around his mother, since they knew, or believed they knew, that Lucius was in disfavor with the Dark Lord, and Draco’s position seemed to fluctuate in their minds based on Harry’s latest performance. But Narcissa had showed up out of nowhere, found the hidden manor on her own, and then stayed on with a welcome from the Dark Lord.  
  
So far as they knew. So far as they thought.  
  
Draco privately considered that they were on to something. Her words seemed to show up out of nowhere, at least, and had startled Lucius into also paying attention. Draco was amused in part of himself, at how poised and in-control his mother was even in a situation like this, how she could make them sit up and listen.  
  
But the rest of him was anxious. Because he didn’t know that his father  _would_ listen to his mother, not permanently.  
  
“You have a day to show me you have changed,” said Narcissa to Lucius. She folded her hands in front of her and looked at him with the kind of critical gaze Draco would have expected to see on judges in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. “Otherwise, I will leave and take Draco with me.”  
  
Draco held back the desire to say something about Harry and how he didn’t want to leave  _him_. He would undermine his mother’s impact on his father if he did.  
  
Luckily, Lucius did it for him, with a sneer and a jibe. “Have you seen how  _close_ Draco and the boy playing the Dark Lord are, Narcissa? You’ll never get Draco out of this house. He’s completely changed his loyalty.”  
  
 _Great,_ Draco thought, and braced for the interrogation.  
  
To his astonishment, his mother didn’t even look at him. She considered Lucius for an ineffable moment more, and then shook her head. “Remarks like that indicate that you have not changed,” she said, and stood. “You have twenty-four hours from this moment.” And she conjured a golden clock with a simple movement of her wand. Draco blinked, impressed. He had never seen that spell before, and his mother had done it wordlessly.  
  
Narcissa nodded to the clock, which had elegantly curved numbers in black on the face. A loud  _tick_ sounded as a hand began to turn around the face. “The clock will show you the time, should you doubt it. Good-bye, Lucius.” She paused at the doorway that separated the small reading room from her actual bedroom, and added without looking back at him, “I hope it need not be forever.”  
  
The bedroom door shut behind her with a small final noise. Draco twisted around to look at his father, to see how he would take it.  
  
Lucius’s face was red. He raised a hand, brought it down on the table hard enough to make the plates jump, and then bent forwards and buried his head in his palms.  
  
Draco sat there, wondering what he should do, offer advice or wait in silence for his father to ask it. He only knew that leaving would be a mistake.  
  
Even knowing that his father was stubborn enough to spend an entire evening sitting there without looking at him, even thinking wistfully of the time he could be spending with Harry instead, he still knew that leaving would be a mistake.  
  
Lucius finally looked up at Draco and whispered, “What did I do to make your mother hate me? She was never this unforgiving before.”  
  
 _She also never had this provocation before._ Again, though, Draco knew that would be a mistake. He simply bit his lip before responding, and then said carefully, “She was angry that you would sacrifice your life and sanity and everything about you to the promise sigil.”  
  
Lucius didn’t snap, though. He kept staring at the wall, and then he whispered, “But I explained that to her. She understood. She has to understand how important redeeming our family name is.”  
  
Draco bit his lip again, but this time he was also counting internally, to keep from snapping. “Did you think about what it would be like for her, to lose you? And she’s not a Malfoy by birth. She might want to see our family powerful and respected, but it’s not the  _name_ that matters so much.”  
  
Lucius now stared at him instead of the wall, as though Draco had said the wisest thing he’d ever heard. Or maybe that the wall had started talking, Draco thought wearily. He still found it hard to say how much his father  _saw_ him, as opposed to seeing what he wanted. “But you didn’t react the same way.”  
  
“I didn’t know what the promise sigil meant at first, and then I was trying to string you along so Harry could cure you.”  
  
Lucius folded his hands the way Narcissa had, but Draco had no illusion that he was as calm as Narcissa had been. “So you conspired against me. Despite bearing the Malfoy name the way I did, and that means you should understand what I was doing and have more of a stake in Malfoy redemption.”  
  
“If you’d had a safe plan to redeem our name, I would have gone along with that.” Draco reminded himself not to snap, not to jump. His father would take any excuse he could to dismiss Draco’s protests as “acting childish.” “But not this sacrifice that—I couldn’t even tell how you meant it to work. Maybe if Harry hadn’t had to pretend to be the Dark Lord, it would have. But now?”  
  
Lucius scowled. “It would have worked if you had helped me. Your mother doesn’t see that you’ve given your loyalty to Potter above all things, does she?”  
  
 _She’s a fool if she doesn’t, and if she doesn’t have some plan to counter that. Probably a plan I won’t like, either._ But Draco refused to think about that. “I didn’t understand your plan. You were going insane, Father. How should I have been able to cooperate when I was under spells that you’d cast on me and didn’t  _grasp_ it, anyway?”  
  
Lucius’s father was the color of old dust. “You could have trusted me.”  
  
“Trusted you. Not the thing inside you.” Draco met his father stare for iron stare. He would go on repeating this until Lucius got it. But he didn’t want to  _only_ repeat it, so he also added, “I’m willing to help you with the twenty-four deadline that Mother gave you. Sitting here and arguing with me about it doesn’t help, though.”  
  
Lucius hunched his shoulders. “You think  _my_ words and wants were obscure? What does ‘show me you’ve changed’ mean?”  
  
“It means,” said Draco, “that you show your focus is on her—and me—instead of whatever grandiose plans you’ve made in your head. Did you think about making another promise to another elemental force?”  
  
Lucius flinched with enough force that Draco sighed, but managed another sneer. “I never realized you had become so accomplished at Legilimency, Draco.”  
  
“I thought you might because you seem to regard it as the natural solution to any difficulty,” Draco muttered, and then shook his head. “Listen, Father. I can help you, but only if you are committed to it. Not fulminating in the back of your head about how you know better and things would turn out right if we only listened to you.”  
  
From the savage twitch of Lucius’s face, Draco had once again practiced mind-reading without Legilimency. Draco lifted his eyebrows at his father, and waited.  
  
At this point, he thought, he was settled on the notion of giving his father up if Lucius wouldn’t change his priorities. His mother had done all she could. Harry had performed a miracle. If Lucius stupidly took the life he’d been given back and sacrificed it on another altar, Draco was going to give up worrying about him.  
  
Not without a great deal of pain and regret, of course. But he didn’t think he could rescue someone who didn’t want to be rescued.  
  
Lucius finally looked at him and muttered, “Then teach me what you think would show her.”  
  
And wasn’t  _that_ an easy role? But Draco had come this far, and had volunteered for it rather than lose his father. He swallowed and nodded. “All right.”  
  
*  
  
“My Lord. I must talk with you, my Lord.”  
  
Harry controlled his discomfort with seeing Fenrir Greyback crawling on his belly in front of him. Yes, Greyback was ridiculous in his devotion to the Dark Lord, but Harry had already used him when he set him to spy on Lucius. At least he wasn’t openly rebelling like Lucius had tried.  
  
“Yes, Fenrir.” Harry kept his voice mechanical, his eyes fixed on the far wall. His hand caressed the jewel-toned dragon that sat beside the throne. The dragon liked petting well enough, Harry thought, but it didn’t like keeping awake and looking menacing when any of the Death Eaters came into the room.   
  
It yawned now, and Greyback looked at the opalescent fangs with a level of respect that made Harry bite the inside of his cheek. The next instant, though, Greyback had turned to Harry and smushed his face against the floor.  
  
From there, he proceeded to say something Harry couldn’t understand because, well, his face was against the floor. Harry hissed in irritation, adding a hint of Parseltongue to it, and Greyback promptly sat up and spoke again, his tongue lapping around his teeth with a stupid amount of drool sliding down his face.  
  
“Do you want me to kill Light wizards to bring them to you? Light wizards who insult you? Can I do that?”  
  
Greyback’s eyes were big with a devotion that made Harry control his first reaction, which was to order him away. He sat back in his throne and slowly shook his head. “If you kill them, Greyback,” he said, and let his voice descend the scale in coldness until he hoped it sounded as if he was trying to freeze Greyback alive, “how will they acknowledge my ultimate triumph?”  
  
“Oh.” Greyback cocked his head to the side and spent a moment scratching at his ear with one hand. At least it wasn’t a foot, Harry thought, thankful for small mercies. “But then how are we going to capture them and assemble them?”  
  
Harry smiled, and was glad to find that Greyback whimpered and cowered in the face of that, so  _it_ at least must be sufficiently intimidating. “I leave that to you. My  _true_ servants will discover a way of obeying my will.”  
  
“My Lord!” Greyback sounded as though someone had stepped on him even as he prostrated himself flat on the ground again. “I am  _yours!_ ”  
  
“Then go. And discover how to work my will. Cowering in front of me serves no true purpose. Obedience in action does.”  
  
Greyback added one more cower and whimper, apparently for effect, and then got up and ran out of the room. Harry looked after him, anticipating more Death Eaters waiting to say something to him. They had had more than enough murmurs to fill the air this morning when he was proceeding to the throne room.  
  
But there were none. Harry leaned back and stared at the ceiling as if contemplating eternity. Under his hand, the dragon shifted uncomfortably, then curled up and tucked its nose under its tail. Probably sleeping again, but Harry could wake it if he needed it.  
  
He was  _exhausted_.  
  
He had spent time building castles in the air last night, convincing the Death Eaters that it was in their best interests to follow him, waving his arms around and pretending to be enchanted by the possibilities of evil. And now he was drained. He had barely got through his audience with Greyback. What would happen if someone else showed up?  
  
 _I want Draco to show up._  
  
Harry breathed out slowly and steadily. Well, what he wanted and what would happen weren’t always the same things. And he had come this far with the charade that had fooled most of the Death Eaters. He wasn’t going to give up on it when the end was in sight.  
  
But what was going to happen after that end? Would his friends be able to accept him back? Would he and Draco be lovers, or even friends, without the intense pressure of his playacting? Would the exposure to his reverse Lightfinder even work the way he intended it?  
  
Harry then sighed and reached down, tickling the dragon’s back until it stood up again. He lifted it, launched it from his fist like a falcon, and began walking down the corridor to his rooms.  
  
He had come too far to turn back. That was still true, no matter what problems Greyback or Lucius or Narcissa or Parkinson or anyone else brought to him.  
  
And it was time to experiment some more with the reverse Lightfinder and make sure that it  _would_ do what he wanted. Failure was not an option.  
  
*  
  
“It’s all about making a good enough speech?”  
  
Draco sighed and rubbed his forehead. Yes, he did think it was imperative that his father be able to tell his mother that he had changed and mean it. But Lucius seemed to think it was another piece of political manipulation, and was smiling in a way that made Draco want to roll his eyes.  
  
“No,” he said. “It’s about meaning it. It’s about showing her that you choose me and her over the mad plans that you had to redeem the Malfoy name.”  
  
Lucius stared again at the parchment in front of him, where Draco was having him write down his ideas. “I was trying to show that I cared about you with my plan. Even if I died, you would be alive and in an honored position.”  
  
Draco hissed through his teeth. They were in Lucius’s rooms, as they had been last night until Draco went to sleep and most of this morning. It turned out that they hadn’t needed to go back to Narcissa’s rooms to fetch the clock. It had followed his father around, floating at his shoulder, and was now sitting there ticking away.  
  
Draco had tried to muffle the ticking with a charm. Nothing had worked.  
  
“We would be alive and in an honored position, maybe,” Draco agreed. “Never mind all the things that would have changed since Harry came into the picture, and not made your plan work.” He leaned forwards and braced his hands on either side of the table, staring into his father’s eyes. “But we would be in that position  _without you_.”  
  
His father’s face changed, terribly. Draco winced, and then wondered a second later why he had thought of it as terrible. Lucius hadn’t turned pale or flinched the way he had last night, or even mouthed words. He had simply changed expression.  
  
“That matters to you,” Lucius whispered. “My life.”  
  
“Yes.” Draco met his eyes squarely.  
  
“But you wanted to change your own life.” Lucius was still whispering. “You didn’t want to live a life on the run, and that was why you went to Potter. How could you be content to know I was in Azkaban and you wouldn’t see me on a daily basis? Why were you allowed to change things, and I wasn’t?”  
  
Draco grimaced. He knew the answer, but he didn’t know if the words would convince his father. “Because I took a risk when I thought I could make a change for the better and it would keep me alive. I would have broken down and let the Aurors take me if I didn’t think that. You, though, made a trade. You didn’t think it would keep you alive. You traded your life and your sanity and  _everything_  for escape from prison and a plan that might or might not work.”  
  
“Ignis would have helped me turn the others in to the Ministry.”  
  
Draco snorted bitterly. “Would you even have been sane enough by that point to know if it did or not?” He then waited with the back of his neck prickling, but no salamander or other elemental creature appeared to scrape him to death with its claws. He exhaled, slowly, and focused on his father instead.   
  
“Would you?” he repeated. “And would you have had the satisfaction of knowing that your goals were fulfilled, if you were gone far enough to forget about your very identity?”  
  
Lucius shut his eyes. Draco decided to try one more strike, because he couldn’t be sure whether the ones he had made so far had gone home. “What would you feel if  _I_ had been the one to make that bargain? With an elemental force of magic or anything else?”  
  
“I wouldn’t want you to,” Lucius muttered, keeping his head stubbornly bowed.  
  
“Then imagine the feeling that you would have, and multiply it,” Draco said softly. “Because what you’re imagining  _is_ only imagination, and  _I_ had to watch you deteroriating right in front of me.”  
  
Lucius rubbed his forehead. For long moments, the loudest sound in the room was the ticking of his mother’s clock. Draco glared at it. It was honestly one of the most exasperating spells he had ever seen, which meant he would have to ask his mother in more detail how she’d managed to cast it. He looked forward to the day he could leave a clock like that in  _her_ rooms and walk out.  
  
“If I must think about you succumbing to such a thing,” Lucius whispered at last, “I would want to be sure that it was for a worthy goal.”  
  
Draco bit his lip again, then asked in the calmest voice he could muster, “And would that mean I could choose anything  _I_ thought was worthy? Or would you still have opinions about it?”  
  
Lucius sat a long, long time in silence. Then he asked, “Do you think your mother would ever do something like this? Sacrifice her life to bring our family back to power?”  
  
“No,” said Draco, and was amazed to find how easily the words came to him. Maybe it was because he had thought about the details of his father’s plan and about his mother so much in the past few days, and about Harry. “But she took a risk when she thought that my  _life_ would be safer. She lied to the Dark Lord for Harry, told him that Harry was dead. I think she would always make sacrifices. But not for something like our family’s reputation.”  
  
Lucius sat up as if someone had told him he was going to be executed tomorrow. Or maybe when the clock finished ticking, Draco thought. He sneaked a glance at it. It was only two hours until the deadline.  
  
“So she wants to know that I care about the same things,” Lucius whispered. “Your health and hers, more than the reputation of our family.”  
  
“And  _your_ health, too,” Draco said, unable to wait for his father to reach the conclusion on his own, although he thought Lucius might have been heading in that direction. “That was what infuriated her the most, I think. You were ready to give everything up, including your health and your life. And what would have happened if you’d succeeded?” He hesitated, then added, “Another thing you couldn’t have done was say goodbye. I don’t think  _it_ would have let you.”  
  
Lucius closed his eyes, then opened them again. Then he said, “I refuse to apologize for my priorities in the past.”  
  
Draco threw up his hands. “Then—”  
  
“But perhaps I can change them for the future.” Lucius slowly opened his hands on his knees. “I hope she’ll give me the chance to prove I can.”  
  
“Then what proof do you intend to offer her?” Draco took another quick glance at the clock, even though he knew it wouldn’t have changed much.  
  
“Telling her.” Lucius only shook his head when Draco looked back at him, mouth already open in a protest. “You can tell me a lot of things, Draco. You’ve already given me some insights that might have taken me—days to attain.” From his grimace, like biting into a sour apple, it had cost him some pride to admit that. “But you cannot tell me what other proof I can give her that would be acceptable.”  
  
Draco simply swallowed and leaned back to think about that. He  _ought_ to have been able to tell him, he thought. He was the one who had advised his father so far, the one who was going to keep him from making other stupid mistakes.  
  
But if Lucius had made his decision, then Draco had to respect it. He nodded once. “When are you going to tell her?”  
  
“When the clock runs out,” Lucius said, and settled back in his chair to watch it, as if the ticking gratified him now.  
  
Draco gnawed his lip hard, as he thought about what a bastard his father could be in his own special way. But he managed the feat of staying silent.  
  
*  
  
“What do you have to say for yourself, Lucius?”  
  
Draco blinked. His mother had swept through the door at exactly the moment the clock gave a small chime and faded from view. He wondered how she had done it, and his conclusion, once again, was that he  _had_ to get her to teach him that spell.  
  
“I have this to say,” said his father, and stood and performed a small bow to his mother. Draco saw her blink, and her eyes soften. That was something, then. “You were right. I was treating your lives as important, by my lights.” Narcissa’s lips tightened. “But I was treating your reputation as even more so. And I have come to realize that we hold different priorities.”  
  
For an instant, Narcissa tensed like a marble statue, and Draco knew he should leave the room. But even moving might bring their attention back to him. He hesitated.  
  
Lucius leaned in. “And that my priorities must change to match yours.”  
  
His mother lowered her eyes. When she looked up again, Draco was astonished to note that her eyelids were trembling.  
  
 _She would have left and taken me with her, or tried to take me with her. Just like she threatened. But it would have cost her more than I’d guessed._  
  
“Thank you,” said Narcissa simply, and put her hand out. Lucius took it. Then they stood there looking at each other.  
  
They had connected, Draco thought. Rebuilt their bond. Just like that. It was stronger than stone.  
  
He hoped that, someday, he would have a relationship like that with Harry.  
  
When he got over both the respectful silence he was feeling for his parents right now and the sick wave of longing for Harry’s presence, he would go and seek him out. 


	35. Smoke and Mirrors

“I have a way to herd the Light wizards you wanted into one place at a designated time, my lord.”  
  
Arsinoe Rosier was the one who made that little announcement, kneeling before Harry with her eyes on the floor and the vigilant snake a short distance from her. Harry watched the sleek line of her back and decided that her smugness was nearing the dangerous level, although she hadn’t made a move to physically attack him yet.  
  
Especially since Rosier had chosen to make that announcement in front of all the other Death Eaters, who jerked straight and muttered to each other loudly enough to wake up the dozing jeweled dragon. At least the dragon was conscientious enough to stretch its jaws wide in a yawn that showed off its fangs. Some of the chattering shut up when Harry’s audience noticed that.  
  
“Do you?” Harry lounged back in his throne, letting one hand dangle to scratch the dragon behind the neck, and ignoring its pained gaze. “Then explain to me what it is. I am eager to  _hear_  it.”  
  
He made his voice as much of a hiss as he could on those last words without sibilants, and Rosier flinched in a satisfactory way as she rose to her feet. A moment later, Harry wanted to flinch the same way.  
  
 _Why do I have to think like this? What happens if I start liking it too much?_  
  
But that worry wasn’t new, and so far he didn’t like it, and he had Draco to keep him sane if nothing else. Harry kept his gaze on Rosier, and waited.  
  
“My Lord.” Rosier was speaking a little quicker now, casting glances at the dragon from time to time. Harry wondered if it might be amusing to spread the word that the dragon got hungry at certain times of the day. “No one else would dare impersonate you, or so the Light wizards will think.”  
  
“Impersonate me as  _myself_?” Harry tugged the dragon onto the arm of his throne and stood it upright. The dragon yawned again, another flicker of the forked tongue, and a corresponding swaying-back in the first row of Death Eaters—for everyone other than Fenrir Greyback, who Harry was starting to think he couldn’t dent.  _He_ only watched with adoring eyes. “Or impersonate me as  _the one I was?”_  
  
Rosier’s face was flushed, but she stood her ground. Brave and clever, just the way that Draco had warned him she was. Harry  _did_ think it was a pity that she had to be on the wrong side.  
  
“The one you were, my Lord.” Rosier dipped her head and continued in a whisper, although one that would still be audible to the other Death Eaters. “I’ve heard a lot of rumors while I was abroad, my Lord. Ones that say the person you used to be was an asset. Someone people wanted to follow. Some of them are starting to doubt that he was ever Dark. If you could appear and announce that you are back to your  _old_ self, that you were never Dark or that you have a way to return to the Light…”  
  
 _Well done,_ Harry silently congratulated her. He had been trying to come up with some excuse that would get him into the front lines with the reverse Lightfinder, and here Rosier had just handed him one.  
  
He pretended to consider, then nodded. “That would work. Well done, Rosier.” This time, it was her turn to preen while the rest glared.  
  
“My Lord!”  
  
 _And, of course, one of them just barely helps me when another one decides to be a problem,_ Harry thought wearily, and turned around to glare at Greyback sprawled on his belly in front of the throne. “What  _isss_ it, Fenrir?”  
  
Not even the extra emphasis on the hiss of the word seemed to deter Greyback, who didn’t lift his head. “My Lord,” he whispered pleadingly. “Must you risk your glorious self? Could you not send someone under a glamour?”  
  
“Could anyone else imitate his magic?” Rosier interrupted before Harry could say anything. “His sheer  _presence_? You have an odd idea of what’s impressive, Fenrir.”  
  
Greyback still didn’t get up, or look at Rosier. His eyes were aimed firmly downwards at the floor. Or maybe he was looking at Harry’s feet. Harry had the upsetting idea that he was. “I only say the right thing,” he whispered. “The reasonable thing. My Lord. If you won’t listen to me, please at least take all of us with you.”  
  
“How could he do that?” Rosier interrupted, this time before Harry could even decide what he wanted to say. “How could he get close and convince the rest of the Light wizards that he was Light again if he was surrounded by an honor guard of Death Eaters?” She laughed scornfully, and reached out as if she would tap one finger on Greyback’s skull. “Sometimes you have the strangest ideas, Fenrir. Our Lord wanted ideas that would work, and—”  
  
“ _Hold, Arsinoe_.”  
  
Harry deliberately said it in Parseltongue, knowing what the reactions would be even though they couldn’t understand. Sure enough, Rosier’s hand froze in mid-reach, and she gave him a blank look that quickly turned to shivering fear when Harry glared at her. The snake by her ankle rose up and looked at Harry.  
  
 _“No_ ,” Harry hissed, also in Parseltongue, and the snake dropped its head somewhat sulkily back down. Harry rose from his throne, the dragon on his arm. It had at least woken up enough to take an interest in the proceedings, and was arching its neck from side to side, eyes bright and shining at everyone.   
  
“Listen to me,” said Harry, and he was careful to look mostly at Rosier as he spoke. He would have looked at Greyback, but there was nowhere to make eye contact; Greyback still had his face buried in the floor. “Where does your greatest loyalty lie?”  
  
Rosier hesitated as if she thought it was a trick question, and Harry slammed his fist into the arm of the throne. “ _Where_?”  
  
Rosier shivered, and bowed her head. “With you, my Lord,” she whispered. “Always.” There was a hurried murmur of voices, confirming the same thing.  
  
“With me,” said Harry, and came a few steps down from the throne. His wand was in his hand now, feeling like part of him. More of the Death Eaters watched that than watched his face. Well, from what Harry had remembered, Voldemort would fry some of them for daring to establish eye contact. “Not with your own ideas, no matter how clever. Not with your squabbles and political power.”  
  
He came right up to Rosier, and reached out to slide a nail down her throat. Rosier’s eyes were wide now. Harry didn’t know if fear was the only emotion making them look that way, since after all she was clever and might be able to figure out the same truth Lucius had.  
  
But he intended to dazzle her enough that that was the last thing on her mind. “Do you know why you are valuable to me, Rosier?” he whispered, as if intimately, but he knew all the Death Eaters would be straining to listen.  
  
“No, my Lord.” Rosier would have shut her eyes, but Harry hissed at her when her eyelids quivered, and she seemed to get the idea.   
  
“Because you have a mind, and can use it.” Harry stepped back from her and stared at Greyback for a moment as if he was dismissing her. Then he snapped his gaze back at her the minute Rosier started to shift her weight in relief. “ _Sometimes_.”  
  
Rosier understood the rebuke that Harry would probably have had to outline for someone like Greyback. She nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Good,” said Harry, and turned to Greyback, letting his voice become soft and almost pitying. “An honor guard would be a good idea, my faithful Fenrir. But such a thing must not happen, lest it break the deception.”  
  
Greyback pushed his face further into the floor, and whispered, “Then let me go with you, my Lord. Use whatever glamours you have to. Whatever magic! But you have to do  _something_. You can’t go unprotected. No matter what some people would like.” He looked up with narrow eyes at Rosier, and then pushed himself up on his hands and pointed one claw-like finger at her as if there was a chance that someone would misunderstand what he meant.  
  
Rosier stiffened and gave her head a little toss. “Are you accusing  _me_?”  
  
“Yes,” said Greyback, and showed his teeth in a way that seemed to mean throat-tearing would be imminent. “Since you suggested sending our Lord into danger.”  
  
Harry started laughing. The dragon stood up on his arm and spread its wings, giving him a direct and delighted glance, as if to tell him that  _this_ was the sort of thing it could get behind.  
  
“My test is passed,” he said. “By both of you.”  
  
They turned and gaped at him, and Harry drew his wand and stepped up to Rosier. She still stiffened and tried to flinch away, and Harry laughed aloud while internally, he felt a little sick. On the other hand, this would keep him from having to torture anyone. And she wouldn’t show him any pity if their roles were reversed.  
  
“I wanted to see who was loyal to me.” Harry glanced around at the other Death Eaters, all of whom, except Draco, Astoria, and Parkinson, flinched and straightened. “Who would recommend an excellent plan, and put their brain to work for me in all ways and all things, and who would want to save my life should I come within even the  _shadow_ of danger.” He gave a simpering smile and patted Greyback on the head. Greyback, of course, only looked as though he was about to die of bliss.  
  
Harry turned and pointed at Rosier. “I grant you another boon.  _Speculum animae_.”  
  
The mirror that shimmered into being in his hand, he turned around and ceremoniously presented to Rosier. Rosier knelt at once. “Thank you, my Lord,” she whispered.  
  
Harry nodded, satisfied by her recognition of the spell. It created a mirror that would reflect visions of the future that showed great dangers to the owner. But the dangers were rarely physical, unless they valued their physical safety above all. Instead, those scenarios were the ones that would destroy their soul—their honor, or their sanity, or whatever else they held as the most important feature of their soul.  
  
At least, the mirrors  _supposedly_ did that. Harry had run across the spell when he was doing his research on reverse Lightfinders and spells that “showed the soul,” and he knew more about what it was actually supposed to do.  
  
“Good,” he said, and turned abruptly away from Rosier to stare at the rest of his followers. “You, and you,” he said, pointing more or less randomly. “And you, and you, and you.” This time, he made sure he chose out Draco and Astoria among the others. “Come with me. I have instructions for you.”  
  
He swept out of the room, ignoring the bows that everyone made. He would have had to pay attention if someone  _didn’t_ bow, but that wasn’t likely right now. Greyback pranced at his heels for a bit, even though he hadn’t been one of those Harry invited, until Harry turned around and looked at him. Greyback promptly whimpered and lowered his head, backing away while bowing frantically, until Harry snorted and dismissed him with a flip of his hand.  
  
He took his “chosen ones” to the library, and began to outline the first versions of his massive distraction, ignoring the moment when Draco caught onto what was happening and his eyes began to widen. Yes, Harry would talk to him about it, but now really wasn’t the moment.  
  
Despite the way Draco’s eyes hardened and glistened. Harry would talk to him, yes, but  _later_.  
  
*  
  
Draco was content to wait until he and Harry could be alone, but only barely content. When Harry had finished detailing the illusions that he wanted Draco, Astoria, and the others to use, and explained with painstaking “care” why the illusions should be positioned the way they were and why they would distract the Ministry, he stayed behind. Harry showed them out the door, and then turned towards Draco.  
  
Draco, though, lost his composure when he saw the strained flush on Harry’s cheeks, and the impulsive way he held his hands out. Draco went into his grip and leaned against him, holding onto him, without a second thought.  
  
“Just stay with me,” Harry whispered. “You don’t need to say anything.” He gave a muffled chuckle against Draco’s shoulder. “In fact, I would prefer you didn’t, given what it’s probably going to be.”  
  
Draco clenched his hands down, and said nothing, because it seemed redundant to him to do it. But his chest ached, and he wanted to snap something, and he had to hold his mouth shut, and.  
  
 _And_.  
  
“Is it really the best choice, to put yourself in danger, no matter how many people are going with you and how many illusions there are?” Draco whispered. He could confine it to a whisper against Harry’s shoulder, and that would lessen the impact that his words would have, the chance that they might hurt Harry. He  _thought_ , anyway. “I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out.”  
  
Harry’s shoulders had tensed, but they loosened again, and Draco went on whispering feverishly into his ear. “Listen.  _Listen_. You gave my father back to me. You can deliver the Death Eaters on a silver platter to the Ministry. You could do that, and we could go away, you and I and my parents.”  
  
Harry pulled back long enough to give him a bewildered look. “Do you really think your parents will accept me being your lover?”  
  
Draco laughed shakily and rested his forehead against Harry’s collarbone, this time. Harry could still hear him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, we could all leave, and then you and I could go somewhere.”  
  
“Away from Britain? Away from the world that you wanted to fight for your right to be in?” Harry tenderly captured Draco’s chin and shook his head for him. “I don’t think that’s what you came to me to try and fight for. And what about Pansy and Astoria?”  
  
Draco froze. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten them, even for a moment.  
  
But it would be no trouble to add two more people to their escape plan. And he knew his mother would shelter Pansy and Astoria without asking for anything, especially since Pansy had been his friend and Astoria his betrothed. He opened his mouth to say so.  
  
Harry continued whispering. “I know you would say that you didn’t start this fight for all Dark wizards, that that part was only something that sounded good and would make you seem less selfish. You started this fight for your own reasons, and you used the ones that would make you sound good. You care most about the people close to you.”  
  
Draco pulled back a little. “Anyone who says they don’t is a hypocrite.”  _Or a Gryffindor,_ he wanted to add, but that sentence had become a little awkward since he’d taken Harry Potter as his lover.  
  
Or even his friend. If he hadn’t thought Harry could fight for people who weren’t close to him, then Draco would have found someone else to help him.  
  
Harry nodded gently, his eyes on Draco’s. “But it was our plan that destroyed the Lightfinder, and condemned so many people to madness. I have to put that right, if I can.”  
  
Draco writhed. Then he snapped out the words he couldn’t control. “What makes you think  _you_ have to? I was the one who recruited Blaise and decided on most of that plan. Why is it you and not me?”  
  
“Because I have the ability to do it.”  
  
Draco drew back, offended, but Harry caught his glance and shook his head with a slight sigh. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, Draco. I have the ability to do it, and that means I  _should_. I can do it more safely than you.”  
  
Draco mused for a few minutes, then shrugged. He supposed that Harry should, if only because he simply couldn’t muster up the same amount of caring for those Light wizards that Harry could. They would have been glad to condemn Harry to death or worse for the sake of not fitting their preconceptions.   
  
He did have another question, though.  
  
“And what happens if it doesn’t work?” Draco asked, then sighed and shook his head when Harry studied him with anxious eyes. “What if you don’t manage to convince your friends or the Light wizards or the Ministry that you’re innocent, and that you were really on the side of good all along? Or if some people get killed in this?”  
  
“If they get killed, then I’ll never forgive myself, and probably spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it.”  
  
Draco hissed a little. “I don’t want to be in love with a martyr.”  
  
“It’s only martyrdom if I die from it.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “You didn’t answer what’s going to happen if they don’t accept you back, or believe that you’re innocent.”  
  
Harry pulled back enough to run one finger along Draco’s collarbone. “There are methods to convince people that I’m telling the truth, however little real criminals want to use them. There are such things as Veritaserum and Pensieves.”  
  
“They wouldn’t have believed you before, even if you did talk about it under Veritaserum. Their panic against Dark wizards was that deeply ingrained,” Draco said, but he muttered the words, and he could see, even from the gentle, bright look in Harry’s eyes, that he was failing. Harry wanted to believe in people’s essential truth and goodness, and he would give them chance after chance to try and make things up to him.  
  
“You know that was in part because of the Lightfinder,” Harry said quietly. “I’m going to use the reverse one to set their minds free, and then let them make their own choices.”  
  
“Let’s say they do that,” said Draco, partially because he was determined to drive Harry to the point of answering his question. “And they still decide that they can’t like what you’ve done, and want to exile you and drive you away and all that rot. What would you do then?”  
  
Harry looked at his hands. Then he looked back up and murmured, “Then I come with you.”  
  
Draco hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that, despite his determination, until Harry spoke the words. Then he held him, and felt as if he would do anything to take back that reluctant admission.  
  
“I don’t want you to have to do that,” he said. “I want you to have what you want, and your friends to welcome you back with open arms, and the Ministry to apologize.”  
  
Harry kissed him on the cheek. “I know. But there’s the chance that something is open for me if I do have to run off with you, and I need to thank you for pushing me to consider that possibility.” He pulled back and looked at Draco, and his eyes were bright and soft. “And for being there for me.”  
  
Draco had some ideas about what would follow a declaration like that, but apparently not the same ones that Harry did. Because Harry was on his knees and pulling at Draco’s trousers before Draco had the slightest notion what was happening.  
  
And then Harry had Draco’s cock in his mouth, and Draco had to fumble backwards for a table. There was no table there, though, only a chair, and then his arse slammed into it and he gasped loudly enough that he was afraid someone would try to knock down the door to find out what was wrong.  
  
Harry had either already put the spells on the door, or just didn’t care. Draco hardly had time to stop him and ask. Harry was sucking hard enough that Draco thought he was probably going to hurt his throat. His eyes were closed, and he paused now and then to inhale as if he needed more of Draco’s scent.  
  
Or just air. Draco wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything right now, except that his hands were holding onto something that wasn’t soft enough to be Harry’s hair. He clutched it and swayed.  
  
The pleasure was one long-drawn bolt this time, whirring through him from his feet to his ears. Draco dropped his head back against the chair and had to close his eyes. His nose ached, for some reason. He reached up and found his face smeared with what were probably tears.  
  
Well, he  _hoped_ they were tears.  
  
He opened his eyes in time to see Harry rise to his feet, working himself so hard that it then looked as if he would hurt his hand. Well, it would match his throat and Draco’s nose, Draco thought muzzily. He reached out to help, but the minute he touched Harry’s hand, Harry jerked hard and came over their interlocked fingers.  
  
“That was—fast,” was all Draco could say, his voice dazed with contentment.  
  
Harry nodded and moved forwards, his face unusually serious. Draco blinked, a little offended. Who gave someone a blowjob like that and didn’t feel calm and happy at the end of it?  
  
Harry gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes for a second. Then he whispered, “Yes. If the Ministry and Ron and Hermione and—and the rest of them don’t turn out to be accepting even though I’m doing my best to heal their madness and get back to them, then I’ll come with you.”  
  
The wave of happiness was at least as intense as the pleasure, and overwhelmed him the same way. Draco took Harry into his arms, murmuring praise. Harry let his head droop, slumping over Draco’s shoulder. Draco rubbed his back and asked, “And you’ll be careful, when you take the reverse Lightfinder in front of that crowd?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry. His breath came out in a misty exhalation over Draco’s back. “And—well, I’ll have to be careful, won’t I, since I’ll pretend that I’ve come to them to surrender.”  
  
Draco blinked, and his hands tightened on Harry’s back. “I don’t think that was part of Rosier’s plan.”  
  
“I never intended to use her plan exactly as she suggested it.”  
  
“Let me come with you, then,” Draco whispered, his own mind developing the plan as he spoke. “Pretend that you’ve captured me and dragged me with you. I can pretend to struggle and try to get away. I can say all the right things that should convince them you’re fighting against the shard of the Dark Lord’s soul and winning.”  
  
Harry tensed hard enough that Draco thought he was going to refuse. But in the end, Harry whispered, “All right.”  
  
 _This is the way it should be,_ Draco thought, tightening his hold on Harry.  _Sharing equal danger, equal chances. Together._  
  
 _And I’m going to warn my mother what’s going on, so she can come up with a plan of her own to get us out of there if necessary_.  
  
 _I’m not going to lose him._


	36. Demands

Harry woke abruptly, with all his senses prickling in a way that made him sure someone had finally broken down the protections on the rooms where he slept. He reached for his wand and got ready to conjure snakes, snap orders in Parseltongue, wake the dragon that was dozing heavy and warm near his hand, send a Patronus to find Draco—  
  
But then the presence moved closer, glowing silvery itself, and Harry realized it was Hermione’s Patronus, not any Death Eater.  
  
“Harry,” said the Patronus, looking directly at him, “we  _have_ to talk. Meet me near where the Lightfinder was.”  
  
The bright otter winked out a moment later. Harry sat up and spent a moment sighing, touching his hair, while the dragon lifted its head beside him and yawned, tongue spiraling around its teeth.  
  
But only a moment, because he knew that tone in Hermione’s voice. Either something had happened, or his friends were losing faith in him, which was an equally urgent “something.” Harry had to go now.  
  
He stood up and made sure that he’d laced on his boots correctly—most of the time, now, he slept in them—and then layered some more spells around the reverse Lightfinder. He couldn’t chance either taking it with him or losing it to someone who was curious enough to try and break open his rooms.  
  
The dragon watched him in silence. Harry turned towards it and raised one eyebrow. “Do you want to come with me?”  
  
The dragon stood up and moved slowly and deliberately. When it fully occupied the space on his bed where Harry had lain, and so all the warmth, it sprawled out and yawned again, then closed its eyes.  
  
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Harry muttered, and cast some Silencing Charms on himself before he opened his door.  
  
He still disturbed someone, and almost swallowed his tongue when he saw who it was. Fenrir Greyback was sprawled on the floor in front of the door-crack, curled up like a big dog. He stirred the instant the door opened, and sat up and stared at Harry with an intent, silent, pleading expression.  
  
Harry shook his head, and resumed the cold mask he had hoped he would be able to put aside for a few hours. “What are you doing here, Greyback?”  
  
Greyback whined and crept towards him, but Harry took a step back from the reaching hand that tried to caress his boots, his skin crawling. Greyback immediately rolled over and showed Harry his belly, while still arching his neck to meet his eyes. His whine resolved into words. “I’m guarding your doors. Where are you going, my Lord? You shouldn’t go without someone to watch your back.” He sat up and immediately looked at Harry as if he assumed he would be invited along.  
  
 _Shit_. Harry made an impatient motion with one hand. “Your Lord has private business, Fenrir, part of fooling the Light wizards who will cooperate with us to herd more of their kind together. I cannot bring a Death Eater with me, lest they be suspicious.”  
  
“But you can’t go unprotected, either.” Greyback pranced to his feet, his eyes so bright that they reminded Harry of the dragon’s. “Take me with you, my Lord. I promise to hide out of sight, and attack these Light wizards the moment they make a threatening move towards you!”  
  
Harry kept down the groan he wanted to give by sheer dint of effort. Then he said, “And if they make no threatening move towards me? Would you attack, without my permission, those who could be precious false allies?”  
  
Greyback immediately pressed his belly to the floor. “My Lord, no, of course not, my Lord!” He looked up with big eyes. “What signal will you use to show me when they overstep their boundaries and you want me to attack?”  
  
 _This is going to happen, apparently,_ Harry thought in resignation. It meant he would have to take care when he was with Hermione, so he would say only things that could sound ambiguous and as if he could betray them.   
  
He held up his right hand and folded down the last three fingers. “This signal,” he said. “Do not attack, Fenrir, do not even  _reveal yourself_ , unless you see me make it. Do you  _understand_?”  
  
He thought his last words were impressive even for a werewolf, and apparently Greyback thought so, too. In seconds he was pressing his face against the floor, kissing Harry’s boots, and whining under his breath, “My Lord is wise, my Lord is kind, my Lord is good! Three fingers folded down on the right hand, the last three, yes, yes, I understand, my Lord, I understand…”  
  
Harry checked his disgust. As much as he would like some of his creatures, like the dragon, to work better with him, intense submission of the kind that Greyback practiced made him uncomfortable. For that matter, so had some of his fans’ displays in the days when they had thought Harry Potter was a Light wizard.  
  
“Come with me, then,” he said. “And be  _quiet_ ,” he added, as Greyback started to open his mouth in what looked like an eager whine.  
  
“Yes, my Lord, of course,” said Greyback, and his eyes shone. “Quiet as stalking wolves!”  
  
Harry checked what he could have said about that, too, and led the way to the edge of the manor house, wrapping himself and Greyback in spells that concealed them easily from the few Death Eaters wandering about at this hour, and from the guards on the edges of the manor’s grounds. When they were at a place they could Apparate, shielded by a large tree from any sight of the house, Harry turned around and held out his arm to Greyback.  
  
“We’re going to deceive Harry Potter’s friends at the edge of the platform where the Ministry’s Lightfinder once stood,” he whispered. “I’ll arrive at a distance of about a hundred feet from it. I want you to conceal yourself at once, and use the magic that will keep you hidden from their sight  _and_ scent. Just in case. Do you understand me?”  
  
Greyback slobbered his devotion all over the back of Harry’s hand.  
  
 _I just hope this fucking works,_ Harry thought in resignation as they disappeared.  
  
*  
  
Draco glanced up sharply as the door started to open. He had been reading up on some of the spellbooks that Astoria had located during her library research and brought to him. It couldn’t hurt to have some extra knowledge when he and Harry got trapped between Light and Dark wizards.  
  
His mother paused inside the doorway with her hand on her wand, which glowed with a peculiarly white  _Lumos_ that she had learned, she said, from her mother. “What are you doing awake?” she asked.  
  
Draco sighed a little and sat back. “You knew I would be awake,” he said. “You must have seen the light of my lamp from beneath the door.”  
  
A moment later, his mother inclined her head and came further into the room, shutting the door behind her. “We must speak.”  
  
“About Father?” Lucius had been amazingly well-behaved in the last few days, at least compared to what he’d been before. Draco hadn’t been there when he made his private apology to Narcissa, but he knew, from what his mother said, that he’d made one. And he’d been one of the people researching a way to survive, along with Pansy and Astoria and Draco himself, on the sly.  
  
“No.” Narcissa folded her hands in the way that always reminded Draco of the portrait of a Malfoy ancestor who was a Wizengamot judge. “About you, and the man who saved your father.”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. So his mother was going to say something about that. It simply hadn’t happened right after Lucius’s rescue, the way Draco had thought it might. Maybe Narcissa had needed some time to make up her mind.  
  
Draco waited, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the table next to the book. Narcissa looked at the hand and frowned. Draco ignored that. He had to let his nerves out somehow, and at least a slow tapping was better than a fast one.  
  
“I wish to make sure that your loyalty is ultimately to your family, the way your father’s should have been from the beginning.” Narcissa walked slowly towards the fireplace and touched the mantel as if calling Draco’s attention to the dust on it. “Is it?”  
  
Draco nodded. “I love both of you and I would do anything to save you. I think I proved that when I begged Harry to save Father, and he did,” he added.  
  
Narcissa turned around, and her eyes were full of shadows. “You  _begged_ him. That means you think you owe him a debt. There was a time you would have disdained to owe anyone a debt, Draco. You had the pride that your father had trained into you, but softened, I thought, into an appropriate sense of your heritage.”  
  
Draco couldn’t help sniffing a little. “I’m not sure I was ever the man you want to see me as, Mother. But even if I was, the war and running as a fugitive after it would have changed me.”  
  
“Perhaps so.” His mother pinned him with the full weight of one of her unforgiving gazes. “I still want to know if you would choose your parents or this Potter if you had to make the choice.”  
  
Draco shrugged a little, easily. “I don’t intend to put myself in the position of having to make the choice.”  
  
His mother’s eyes hardened. “Someone else might put you in that position. With the best of intentions.”  
  
Draco leaned back. “I already spoke to Harry about this.” His mother started at his reference to Harry’s first name, but kept watching him, so quiet that Draco swallowed before he could continue. “He wants to return the sanity that the Lightfinder’s explosion took to the Light wizards who were affected. But there’s the possibility that they won’t forgive him for pretending the way he had to do, even if he could explain everything. In that case, he said he would leave with us.”  
  
“If we are forced to leave before then?” Narcissa was watching him with only her lips moving. “Which side would you choose?”  
  
“I am going to be with him when he confronts the Light wizards, playing the part of unwilling prisoner.” Draco spoke it and then left it lying there for his mother to respond to, the way she had kept doing with most of her words.  
  
“That does not answer my question.”  
  
“I’m trying to prevent your question from being asked, so that’s not surprising.” Draco softened his words as much as he could with a quick smile.  
  
His mother stepped back from him, and then turned the motion into one that let her hand slide smoothly along the stone of the fireplace. Draco looked at her in as much sympathy as he could muster. He didn’t think Narcissa was trying deliberately to separate him from someone he loved. She didn’t have any idea how deep his bond with Harry ran.  
  
Draco entertained the idea of trying to explain, but he doubted it would make much difference. Narcissa had been angry with Lucius because he had put himself before his family. She could be angry at Draco for putting someone else, as she saw, before them, even if she could also acknowledge that they legitimately owed him a debt.  
  
“You will not give me a straight answer,” said his mother at last.  
  
“I don’t think I can,” Draco said. He wasn’t swallowing now, wasn’t smiling. There was only the thing that was important to him, and his mother’s gaze, and the conflict between them. He turned back to the book again. “I’m trying to make sure that all the people I care about can survive. And that includes Pansy and Astoria,” he added. “I doubt you would approve of leaving them here when they’ve been so loyal to me.”  
  
“I would approve of our family escaping first, and then coming back and rescuing who else we can when we reach a secure place.”  
  
Draco’s lips twitched despite himself. “You would approve me leaving such a place if we did attain it?”  
  
Narcissa said nothing, and Draco had his answer. No, she wouldn’t. He turned around and nodded to her. “Leave me to my study, please, Mother. If I simply left Harry now, without so much as a word, it would be a betrayal. I’m trying to memorize some incantations that would let us have a better chance of survival. I’ll go on doing that until I know that either we’re all away and safe, or that we won’t have a chance of that.”  
  
“Even if your  _Harry_ has already left without speaking to you? Is that not a betrayal in and of itself?”  
  
Draco kept control of himself with an effort, and didn’t snap his head up and gape at Narcissa. His heart ached, though, and his cheeks where he was biting the inside of them. He managed to speak a moment later. “That would be for the scouting mission we’d discussed, I assume. Strange that it’s in the middle of the night, but I do trust the decisions Harry makes.”  
  
His mother’s hand landed next to his, and made Draco jump and turn rapidly towards her despite his resolve to sit there. Narcissa leaned close to him.  
  
“In the middle of the night, as you said,” Narcissa whispered to him. “And accompanied by Fenrir Greyback.” Her hand grew white and rigid next to him. Draco didn’t move his eyes or his body, but it was difficult. “Perhaps you should recognize that the man you hold such loyalty to does not reciprocate that loyalty.”  
  
 _What are you doing, Harry?_ Even if Greyback had trapped him into doing something, Harry could have overpowered him if he was high-handed enough. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before. He could have come and told Draco, or taken Draco with him.  
  
 _We are going to talk about this when you come back,_ Draco promised Harry, and said aloud, “How did you happen to see this, Mother? I wasn’t aware that you were in the habit of spying on someone most of the Death Eaters still think is the Dark Lord.”  
  
There was a moment’s pause before his mother answered, “I was on the way back from your father’s rooms to mine.”  
  
But Draco had heard that moment. He turned around and smiled patiently at her. “Perhaps the truth, Mother? Since you seem so determined to tell it to me when it comes to all other aspects of the situation.” He paused and then clucked his tongue when Narcissa remained silent. “Silence now?”  
  
“I was alerted by Potter’s door opening,” said his mother, voice low and hard. “I have an alarm that I’ve cast on it to wake me if I’m asleep when it happens.”  
  
 _I’ll alert Harry at once._ For the moment, Draco could allow a genuine emotion to appear. “Then that means that you’re—you  _are_ spying on him, Mother. And if someone else had investigated and found that? They could have come and hurt you, if they’re genuinely loyal to Harry.”  
  
“The man they  _perceive your Harry to be._ ”  
  
Draco ignored that. “Or they might have manipulated the alarm so that it would alert them instead. Or taken it as evidence of dangerous weakness on Harry’s part, and attacked him.” Draco leaned slowly towards her, and his mother’s hand fluttered as if she wanted to make him back away but didn’t know how. “It’s one thing to want your family safe, and another to work against the man who we  _do_ owe a debt to.”  
  
Narcissa’s mouth opened a moment. Then she said, “You may owe it to him, and your father may.  _I_ do not. I was the one who saved his life in the Forest, and I have not yet demanded payment of that debt. If I ordered him to let my family go and stop involving us in his deceptions, he would have to do so.”  
  
“So you would leave two members of your family in debt, with no chance to pay it back if Harry is dead?” Draco folded his arms. “It doesn’t matter to you if our magic is affected, or my happiness is compromised, compared with sheer survival? Now you’re starting to sound like Father, only unbalanced in another direction.”  
  
Narcissa’s cheeks looked like bloodied paper. “Draco.”  
  
“I’m just waiting for an answer, that’s all.” Draco paused and studied her. “Or waiting for you to admit that you don’t have one you can make acceptable to me. Either way.”  
  
“Will you ask your  _Harry_ where he was going in the middle of the night accompanied by Fenrir Greyback?” Narcissa asked the question calmly, standing upright and leaning away from him in the manner that meant she had also retreated emotionally. “And relay the answer to me?”  
  
“I’ll ask him,” Draco said. “Not the way you want me to, searching for evidence of a betrayal, but I’ll ask him.”  
  
His mother tried to stare him down, but Draco had got a lot better at resisting that over the past few weeks. She finally turned her head sharply to the side, nodded, and departed.  
  
Draco did sit there, turning various plans over in his head for how to ask Harry, and wondering whether he should follow him right now. But in the end, he shook his head and turned back to the book of spells he was trying to memorize.  
  
Part of trusting Harry was not jeopardizing whatever plan he had in motion, and another part was asking him for the truth later. Draco might wish he and Harry could share a bond  _somewhat_ like his parents’, but he didn’t hope for a mirror image.  
  
*  
  
“Stay here,” said Harry to Greyback, and leaned so near that he thought he could catch a reflection of his face moving in Greyback’s wide amber eyes. “ _Do not move_. Do you  _understand?_ If you come close enough to these Light wizards, or interfere in any way no matter what you hear, you need not worry about what they will do.  _I_ will be your end.”  
  
Harry sort of hoped the threat would make Greyback cower so much he would start being frightened of Harry—well, frightened in a way that would prevent him from following Harry around and wanting to protect him. But Greyback, even though he pressed himself flat with his belly to the ground behind the abandoned stage, still gave him an adoring look.  
  
 _I hate how the wizarding world turned on me after the Lightfinder declared me Dark, but maybe it was a good thing, if the only alternative is this sniveling service,_ Harry thought, as he walked around the stage.  
  
Hermione was standing there, in the middle of a Disillusionment Charm’s shiver that Harry only saw because he was looking for it. He gave her a quick, tentative smile. “Hermione?”  
  
She saw him and cast a spell that sped past him, searching. Harry knew the moment when she detected Greyback’s presence, because she seemed to reel back.  
  
Harry met her eyes and shrugged a little. “I was lucky to come this far with so little guardianship,” he said. Then he let his real emotions come to the surface for the first time in days. “Hermione, it’s so  _good_ to see you.”  
  
She walked slowly towards him. She hadn’t spoken yet, and there was magic crackling around her hair and in the tip of her wand. Harry was a little surprised he could sense it, but he reckoned that working with the Lightfinder might have made him more sensitive to it.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione whispered finally, when she was only a few centimeters away from him, and yet she didn’t embrace him. “What are you  _doing_?”  
  
“The only thing I can,” Harry said, and waited until she was actually looking at him before he continued. “Making sure that I save my life and the lives of other people depending on me, and save the wizarding world’s sanity.”  
  
“They have been pretty insane since the Lightfinder exploded, yes,” Hermione said, but a second later, she frowned as if she hated agreeing to anything he said. “But have you considered what this deception could cost you?”  
  
“I know I could die,” Harry began.  
  
“No. I mean, people might never believe you again. I mean—” Hermione’s hand tightened on her wand. “I could barely convince myself to come. I know—I  _know_ you, and yet it sounds so convincing, the rumors that are spreading of Voldemort coming back to life.”  
  
“And what do you think would happen if they weren’t convincing?” Harry shook his head. “I know what it could cost me. I know that people might never trust or believe me even after I return to the wizarding world. But what exactly is the alternative? They don’t trust or believe me  _now_.”  
  
Hermione pushed sweaty hair out of her face and closed her eyes. “They don’t. But will persisting in this deception help you?”  
  
“The way I want it to? For me to survive and restore the Light wizards’ sanity?” Harry nodded and caught her eye. “Yes, I think so. Whether it can achieve anything more than that—I don’t know.” He reached out and caught her hand, needing to hold it for a minute no matter what she thought of him. “I can’t make people forgive me.”  
  
Hermione took her hand away. Harry leaned back against the stage and tried to convince himself that at least, this way, it would make a good show for Greyback.   
  
“Neville trusts you,” Hermione whispered. “Ron trusts you. Did you send them any messages that you didn’t send to me?”  
  
Harry blinked. “Not unless they didn’t tell you about some of them. Otherwise, you should know everything they know.”  
  
“I know, but I don’t  _realize_ ,” said Hermione, and pressed her hand over her heart, and opened her eyes to consider him again. “How is this going to work, Harry?”  
  
Harry grimaced. He really couldn’t give her details, not when Greyback was listening to them from a short distance away. “I’m going to do what I can to get the Light wizards together,” he said, even as he traced his wand over his palm, forming green letters that spelled out _Fenrir Greyback is listening to us._ “And from there, well. It’s up to the Ministry to forgive me after all is said and done, I suppose.”  
  
Hermione glanced at him from shadowed eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think you have good intentions, you know? But I think this act could consume you. You might have darkness inside you that you’re not even aware of, and which could eat you alive, or make you enjoy torturing someone a little too much.”  
  
Harry tensed, but said nothing. It was nothing more than what he was afraid of himself, the same tension he struggled with every day.  
  
“You can’t give me any more reassurances?” If it hadn’t been from the way Hermione had glanced at his palm, Harry might have thought she hadn’t even noticed his message. Then again, maybe she was trying hard not to call attention to it.  
  
Harry met her eyes and said, as gently as he could, “No.”  
  
Hermione sagged a bit. “We have to trust you?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
Hermione shivered once, then hugged him so quickly he didn’t have time to hug back, and turned away. “I hope that you  _are_ right,” she said over her shoulder, a few seconds before she Apparated.  
  
Greyback came lolloping up to Harry while he was still staring at the spot Hermione had occupied. “You fooled her, my Lord,” he said. “You  _fooled_ her.”  
  
 _And you, and lots of other people. Let’s just hope it’s not myself._  Harry nodded and said simply, fighting for the strength to make his voice cold, “Indeed. Let us return now.”  
  
Fenrir ran proudly in front of him until they reached the Apparition point. Harry said nothing, but his heartbeat was loud and cold in his ears.  
  
 _I can’t make them forgive me._  
  
 _I can only give them the chance._


	37. The Rising Hours

“I don’t think my mother will sabotage us, but I’m worried about what else she could do,” Draco finished, and laid his hand on Harry’s wrist, shifting to feel the pulse beating beneath his fingers.  
  
Harry had agreed to the private talk Draco had wanted, and had listened without moving. Draco began to wonder what had happened when he left with Greyback. It was Harry’s turn to answer questions now.  
  
He lifted his head to ask, and Harry was already there, eager to respond, his eyes seeking out Draco’s as though he’d been lonely for the sight of them. “I intended to leave on my own and go when Hermione sent me a Patronus, but Greyback was sleeping right outside my door, and I stumbled into him when I stepped out. Or maybe I didn’t, but just alerted him moving around.” Harry sighed. “It’s as difficult to fool a werewolf’s ears as his nose.”  
  
Draco sat up. “Why did Granger send you a Patronus?”  
  
“I didn’t know at first.” Harry ran a distracted hand through his hair, and stood up as if he was going to pace the room. He seemed surprised when Draco wouldn’t let go of his hand, and then pleased. He sat down again and gave him a faint smile. “It turned out that she’s having a hard time trusting me, and she wanted to meet me near the spot where the Lightfinder had exploded and—evaluate me, I suppose.”  
  
Draco could have said many cutting things about Gryffindor loyalty, but he knew Harry was in no mood to appreciate them. Best to leave them until he was. Instead, Draco said, as calmly as he could, “And how did that work with Greyback along?”  
  
“I told him that I was going to play Harry Potter to fool my friends, and that he wasn’t to attack anyone, no matter what they did or said, until I gave him a very specific hand signal.” Harry folded his fingers on his right hand down. “He kept out of sight, but I let Hermione know he was there.”  
  
“How?” Draco could think of few things more dangerous, when Greyback was hiding right nearby.  
  
Harry gave him another faint smile. “I wrote letters on my hand and held it so Greyback couldn’t see. But she had already figured out he was there. Since Greyback thought the whole thing was a deception anyway, I don’t think her spell made much difference.”  
  
Draco sighed. Harry looked at him, apparently waiting for the explanation of that sigh, and Draco finally gave it. “I wish there was some way we could make this less dangerous for you, but I have to admit, I can’t think of many ways.”  
  
Harry nodded once, slightly. “I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m the one who should be doing that.” He took Draco’s hand and held it tightly. “Since I’m the one who decided on this plan in the first place.”  
  
“Not being able to make it less dangerous doesn’t mean I can’t help,” Draco whispered. “What do you want me to do?”  
  
Harry hesitated, and Draco made his voice sharp. “Come on. There must be something, other than the spells I’ve been learning.”  
  
Harry slowly nodded. “Then you can alert Parkinson and Astoria, and make sure they’re ready to move as soon as they can. I think they ought to leave the manor when we leave, but go to whatever safehouse your parents have arranged. That way, whether we lose or win, they won’t be caught up in the chaos.”  
  
Draco knew what he meant—either the chaos of the Death Eaters returning and taking vengeance on anyone they thought closely allied with Harry, or the Ministry trying to sweep up all the Death Eaters they could. “Fine. What else?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “I really can’t think of anything else, Draco. I know what I have to do to make the reverse Lightfinder work now—”  
  
“Do you? What?”  
  
“Want one thing, overridingly.” Harry smiled, and Draco wanted to reach out and trace the smile into a more pleasant shape with one finger, but he knew he didn’t have enough power in his hands for that. “I can’t pretend to want it, or think how nice it would be to want it, or try to want it and work on that. I have to  _want_ it.” He glanced at Draco. “I already took advantage of you in that way once, when I decided that I wanted to heal your father because it would make you feel better.”  
  
“What way can you take advantage of me now?” Draco slid his hand around Harry’s neck. Harry kept claiming that Draco couldn’t help, but Draco had thought of one way he possibly could, if Harry would only shut up and listen to him. He would let Harry say what he had in mind first, though.  
  
“I’ll want to keep you safe,” Harry said quietly, and fastened his gaze on Draco. Draco’s mouth dried up before some of the implications in that expression. He ducked his head so he wasn’t meeting Harry’s gaze, because it was better for everyone concerned that way. “That’s why I have to put you in danger for at least a little while. If you aren’t, I’m not sure I can make the Lightfinder work.”  
  
Draco nodded. “You know I already volunteered for that. Or asked, and told you that I’d be willing to do it.” He flexed his fingers once against Harry’s nape. “Is that the only way you’re going to allow me to help?”  
  
“ _Allow_ you?” Harry turned his head into Draco’s hold and sighed. “I’d like to do lots of other things. I’d like you to help me in every way you can. But I honestly can’t think of any other way.”  
  
“I can,” Draco said, waited until Harry was looking at him, and then leaned forwards and kissed him.  
  
He had thought Harry might protest, but he was welcoming Draco with eager hands and mouth, his tongue yearning around Draco’s. He tried to drag them to the floor, but Draco drew back and said, “No. Not this time.”  
  
“All right,” said Harry. His face had settled into hard lines, and he stood up now as if he would back off.  
  
Draco sighed, rolled his eyes, and marched them into Harry’s bedroom before Harry could get any strange objections. He climbed onto the bed there and started taking off his clothes, relying on Harry to get the idea sooner or later.  
  
It seemed he did, because he made a little choke and then joined Draco on the bed. Draco started having a much harder time taking off his clothes when Harry’s hands and tongue were in the way, and he laughed into the kiss and laid Harry back, then started taking off one piece of his clothes alternating with one of Harry’s.  
  
Harry was too dumbstruck to help much at first, only gaping at Draco as if he was the most remarkable sight he had ever seen. Draco ducked his head and smiled under his eyelashes at Harry. He knew he wasn’t the best-looking or smartest person in the entire world, but sometimes it helped to have someone stare at him as if he was.  
  
Harry finally closed his mouth about the third time Draco kissed him, and started helping with the clothes. There was a growing pile of them next to the bed. Draco finally pulled down his pants too, and let Harry get in his fill of staring and gaping at his cock. Admiring it. Worshipping it, maybe.  
  
Harry shook his head, in response to what Draco didn’t know, and yanked down his own pants finally. Draco had seen his cock before, but it was darker this time, he thought, harder. Well, he’d kept Harry hard for longer, too. He reached out and took Harry’s cock in one hand, fingers sliding smoothly up and down it.  
  
Harry gave the choking noise instead. He was watching Draco intently, and Draco thought he knew what Harry was waiting for.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered. “We’re going to fuck this time.”  
  
Harry clenched one hand into a fist and reached out for his wand, fumbling. Draco waited, stroking Harry, curious. He wondered what spell Harry would use. There were several Draco knew, but he didn’t think that Harry knew or had practiced any of them.  
  
 _He wouldn’t have had much reason to practice them before he got together with me. Would he?_  
  
Draco ducked his head to kiss Harry again, jealousy stirring in him at the thought of Harry experimenting with someone else in his bed in Gryffindor Tower. Harry spluttered and said, when Draco had pulled back, “I was  _trying_ to cast the incantation there.”  
  
“Which one is it?” Draco gave Harry a smile he hoped was charming, while trying to figure out how he could ask whether Harry had been with anyone else before.  
  
Harry gave him a withering look, and muttered, apparently by way of showing him, “ _Olearius_.”  
  
A second later, his fingers were slick and shimmering, and Draco was blinking in surprise. That was one he hadn’t heard of before. Maybe other Gryffindors had taught it to Harry.  
  
 _As long as those Gryffindors weren’t trying to fuck him, fine,_ Draco thought, and raised himself on his knees as Harry conjured some more lube and reached out towards Draco’s arse. He did have to pause on the way there because his hands were shaking so badly.  
  
“Something wrong?” Draco asked, in what he hoped was a mature and tolerant voice instead of one filled with impatience to see what Harry’s fingers felt like.  
  
“Just haven’t done this before,” Harry muttered, and cast him a look bashful enough to make Draco’s face flame by association. “Just don’t want you to laugh at me.” He swallowed. “Just don’t know what to do except in theory.”  
  
 _Ah_. Draco found himself smiling before he thought about it, most of his anxiety vanishing in a rush now that he knew Harry hadn’t been sleeping around with lots of their yearmates before this. “I’ll guide you. I do know.” He sat back and up, and then turned around and pointed his arse towards Harry when he thought that angle might be better.  
  
“You did this a lot?”  
  
Harry’s hand was still and his anger suddenly hot enough to heat Draco’s skin, too. Draco sighed in delight. It was nice to be gaped at, nicer still be to be desired.  
  
“No,” Draco said at last, after enjoying the tormenting uncertainty for as long as he could, and holding Harry in the same sort of tension he’d experienced himself. “What I did was lots of lube spells and some fingers up the arse. I know what mine feel like. I want to know what  _yours_ feel like.”  
  
It seemed that was the best way he could say it, because Harry made an eager little sound that wasn’t at all like a choke this time and slid them into Draco.  
  
Draco arched his neck, but made himself relax and ride the sensation, no matter how unfamiliar it seemed after so long. He knew acting upset would panic Harry to the point that he would start apologizing, and God knew when they would get back to the sex.  
  
And it didn’t hurt so much, when Draco managed to start sinking down. Less than some of the times he’d probed himself when he was wanking. “Where did you learn this spell?” he asked, to show Harry he was still paying attention to something besides the sensation, and he only stuttered a little.  
  
“Read it in a book. This past week.” Harry’s words were already fracturing into harshness and silence. Draco wriggled his arse smugly, and dropped a little distance more. “I wanted—I wanted to know what I could do in terms of making it—more comfortable. For—whoever was on the bottom.”  
  
“You didn’t know if you wanted to be?” Draco murmured, and arched his neck further as Harry’s fingers got further and further in.  
  
“Been thinking of it a lot. Both ways.”  
  
Draco shuddered, his mind dissolving in a warm, wet rush as he thought about that. And then he drove himself down on Harry’s fingers, reminding his dissolving mind that they weren’t actually fucking yet. He had a distance to go before he would find out what Harry’s cock was like.  
  
Apparently, Harry was determined to make him feel every inch of that distance. His fingers probed and opened and spread apart, and Draco caught himself on his hands and knees. Then they had to shift because he was kneeling on Harry’s stomach with his hands on Harry’s legs, and Harry complained that wasn’t comfortable.  
  
But once Draco’s knees were on the bed again and Harry’s four fingers were back in his arse, Draco’s impatience surged again. He dropped his forehead onto his folded arms and ground his arse into Harry’s face. Harry groaned.  
  
“Come on, then,” Draco whispered. Leave it too long, and their chance would be gone. That conviction beat in his head, even though he didn’t want to back out of this and he didn’t think Harry would.  
  
Harry only nodded, as though in a daze—Draco could feel the movement of Harry’s head against his arse—and then reached under Draco and positioned him again. Draco stumbled slightly, trying to find a comfortable place for his knees, before Harry said, “Can you—can you lower yourself?”  
  
Draco paused, then smiled. “You find it hot, don’t you?” he whispered, moving so that he had Harry’s cock between his thighs. It felt slippery, burning.  _And you’re too embarrassed to say “cock,”_ Draco added to himself, but he didn’t think he should say that aloud yet. Maybe after Harry had satisfied both himself and Draco, and there wouldn’t be a chance of him rolling out of bed and storming out of the room  
  
“Yes,” Harry choked, as if ashamed of himself.  
  
Draco grinned and sat down, driving his arse with far more force than Harry had let Draco use when it was just his fingers. This time, though, Harry was too busy writhing and crying out to complain. Draco got to bob up, then down again, and then settle with a sigh and a shake of his head.  _So good._  
  
The thought raced around the slight burn and stretch. No pain, not really. Draco supposed there was an advantage to four fingers instead of two, and being able to do it as they liked without having to keep one eye on the door for returning roommates.  
  
Draco began to bob up and down at first, then force and flex and thrust himself. Harry mostly grunted behind him. Draco reached out and braced his hands on Harry’s legs, and swore he could feel the grunts traveling beneath Harry’s skin, up against his palms like a racing current of water.  
  
 _Or fire_.  
  
It was like being surrounded, smothered, by heat. Draco bobbed up and away from Harry, and felt as though someone had fanned a cool breeze across his cheeks and forehead before pulling away. Draco opened his mouth and gulped the breeze, then sank back again and hissed as more air worked its way out of him, more cock worked its way in.  
  
They had a rhythm, pretty quickly, at least once Harry put his hands on Draco’s hips and stopped him “teasing,” as it suited him to put it. Draco smiled and shut his eyes, and delighted, meanwhile, in the feeling of being filled. Sometimes it was there and sometimes it went away, with the alternations of heat and coolness, and it was all wonderful.  
  
He wondered for a moment why he hadn’t simply thrown Harry onto the bed the minute he saw him again and started doing this. Sure, there were reasons if Draco cared to remember them, but they were all marvelously far away at the moment.  
  
Then Harry surged up and grabbed Draco’s hips, and then Draco was being lifted up and down more than he was lifting himself. Draco laughed in surprise, and let his head droop back until it rested on Harry’s shoulder. When he shut his eyes, the motion was much the same, and it was nice not to have to do all the work.  
  
Harry was bending Draco forwards now, crying out with short, muffled sounds into his ear. Draco reached back and got one arm around Harry’s neck. Now he could feel the cries through his skin again, the way he’d been able to feel the grunts, and the sounds seemed to slam into the middle of his stomach, sending him soaring.  
  
He knew what was coming a second before it happened, and he tried to clench down on Harry in an attempt to bring Harry with him, to share this before—  
  
He didn’t quite manage it. The pleasure around him snapped like a bubble, and Draco fell headlong into it, crying out himself. Harry followed so hard that it was like the fall of a stone into a pond behind Draco, with a thrust strong enough to tear Draco’s arm loose from its position.  
  
 _Not the same time, but pretty close,_ Draco thought, as they lay and panted on the bed, and Merlin, this was going to be uncomfortable in a second, with him bent halfway under Harry, forwards over Harry’s legs, with Harry’s knees poking at him.  
  
But for right now, it wasn’t.  
  
*  
  
Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. Or done so much work in a short time. The only thing he could compare it to was Quidditch, but even in Quidditch, he didn’t fly that fast or hammer his hips that hard.  
  
 _I hope not, unless you’re having sex with broomsticks,_ said a taut voice in his head that sounded like Hermione.  
  
Harry grinned and hid his sweaty face against Draco’s back. He felt wonderful, still. Lightly floating, borne over mountains. He knew he would have to wake up and deal with what was happening around them sooner or later, but “later” wasn’t “right now.”  
  
Draco was the one who finally stirred and reached back with one open hand. Harry searched around for a moment, and then put Draco’s wand into his hand. Draco sighed and cast the spells that Harry knew had to be done, but which still rippled unpleasantly over his skin as Draco’s magic passed. Harry shivered as the sweat disappeared.  
  
Draco turned around and kissed Harry. Harry reached up and tangled his fingers in Draco’s hair, sighing. The knowledge of what they would have to face was beginning to come back to him, strong enough to make him shiver again.  
  
“We’ll make time for a shower,” Draco whispered. “The plan can’t start until the afternoon anyway, right?”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. He had wanted a time when most of the Ministry workers would be there rather than at home and the chaos of the morning had lessened. Rosier had found it for him, as well as a promise that she would start spreading the rumor that Harry Potter had been seen near the Lightfinder’s platform.  
  
 _She is very useful_ , Harry thought, but he also still thought that he would have to use the cobra that coiled near her before long.  
  
“I can already feel you leaving me as you voyage into your mind,” Draco murmured, and turned towards him. His eyes were large and expressive, and he placed one hand on Harry’s cheek and gazed long and hard into his face. “Try not to do that, would you? Try to stay with me. Or at least let me follow you.”  
  
“I’m trying,” Harry said, and ducked his head so that his hair brushed along Draco’s fingers. “And I think you’re right, and that we’ll make time for a shower. The Death Eaters’ plans can’t start until I’m ready, and Rosier’s smart enough not to include a precise time in her rumors.”  
  
Draco smiled softly. “It’s going to be over one way or another,” he said. “After today.”  
  
Harry shuddered once. Draco felt the shudder, and his arms tightened and clamped down.  
  
“And you won’t be alone,” Draco said. “No matter what happens.”  
  
“If someone has captured me and you still have a chance to escape,” Harry said, “take it.”  
  
Draco snorted. “Of course. I’m not a Gryffindor.” Then, just as Harry had started to blink in cautious hope, Draco added, “It just means that I’d come back later and figure out a way to rescue you. I have to be free for that.”  
  
Harry leaned his forehead into Draco’s, wishing his scar was really the magical talisman so many people had once thought it was, and that he could pass some kind of protection on to Draco. “I want you to have a happy life, even if it’s without me.”  
  
“It won’t be. Because, one way or another, I’m going to get you out.”  
  
Harry sighed again and slowly disentangled himself. He knew there was no way he could get Draco to stay behind, and it would have been fatal for the plan anyway. “How about that shower?”  
  
Draco seemed to recognize that he hadn’t so much ended the conversation as sidestepped it, but he nodded, touched Harry’s shoulder once, and slithered out of bed. Then he paraded to the bathroom, wriggling his arse and looking back over his shoulder.  
  
That at least let Harry smile. He slipped out of bed, probably not as gracefully, and followed.  
  
*  
  
Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, then down the nape of his neck and back again, up around his ears. Harry stood there, head bowed, shivering quietly, and even let Draco trace his eyelashes and the delicate outline of his eyelids.  
  
Harry was so trusting like this, and he would let Draco do whatever he wanted. Touch Harry, fuck him, stay behind, come with him. Draco had had to insist on it, and overcome those tendencies that Harry seemed to have about everyone he cared for. He only asked for their help reluctantly. He seemed to think that otherwise, they should be able to stay behind, out of danger, while he did everything.  
  
That kind of attitude drove Draco mental. But what mattered, really  _mattered_ , was that he was leaning against Draco like this, trusting him, and it made Draco’s head spin and his mouth water.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
“Yeah?” Draco’s voice was deeper than he remembered it being, soft and filled with a huskiness that he would be a fool to pretend wasn’t desire.  
  
Harry raised his head, his eyes almost luminous as he sought out Draco’s face and then smiled at him.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Draco leaned his cheek against Harry’s, and couldn’t say anything, because there wasn’t anything. What they had, spiraling and shaking between them, was locked and located in their heartbeats and the rush of blood along their veins.  
  
It seemed like a long time before the water of the shower chilled and they had to climb out. Draco watched as Harry bent to dry his own waist and legs, the way his back bent and flexed beneath old scars, and told himself that he would see Harry still flexing and breathing at the end of the day.  
  
No matter what he had to do to make sure of it.


	38. The Canting Hours

“My Lord.”  
  
Greyback was bowing, or cringing, before him. At this point, Harry had no idea what he was supposed to call the motion, and he had no inclination to find a name. He stared with Voldemort’s remote, icy eyes until Greyback had finished smashing his face into the floor and was quiet.  
  
Then he turned and looked out over the ranks of the Death Eaters. Nervous faces stared back at him, mingled with confused ones, excited ones, and ones that smiled as if they thought that would make them look more trustworthy.   
  
Harry experienced a wholly unwanted and unwarranted moment of sympathy for Voldemort. If this was what he had to work with, no wonder he’d lost the war. And if the Death Eaters thought they were being clever when they lined up to betray him, then it was no wonder he’d remained in power for so long.  
  
“There will be two sets of guards,” he said harshly. “As well as the illusion-makers. The illusion-makers will wait in hiding and not attack until I have used the reverse Lightfinder. The first honor guard will come with me to the meeting place and make sure that the Ministry does not interfere before time. You are to attack  _only_  if they disarm me or take my pretended prisoner away. Do you understand?”  
  
There was a chorus of nods, but also a chorus of murmurs, and someone who sounded like the woman Yaxley-Jones called out, “My Lord, what prisoner is this?”  
  
Harry turned to face the door. They had planned this, and Greyback’s fall on the floor in front of his throne had opened up a small clear space. That gradually widened into an aisle as Draco walked down the middle of the room, head bowed.  
  
He knelt in front of Harry, beside Greyback. Harry saw a quiver in Greyback’s neck, as though he wanted to turn his head and bite Draco for daring to share his space. Harry gave a small hiss in Parseltongue. Greyback frantically went back to trying to acquaint his face with the floor.  
  
“This is Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, and reached out and clamped one heavy hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Because he has displeased me.”  
  
This time, the chorus had laughter in it. Harry scanned the room swiftly once, but didn’t see Narcissa or Lucius. He hoped Draco had told them to leave and be quick about it. The last thing Harry needed was them interfering.  
  
“I will come to the area where the original Lightfinder was, with the prisoner,” Harry continued, still in the same harsh tone. “I will make them think that I am  _really_ Harry Potter and I’m bringing a fugitive who ran for them in as a prisoner. The first guard is to interfere  _only_  if the Ministry harms me or takes Malfoy from me.  _Do you understand_?”  
  
“My Lord, yes my Lord!” said the prompt chorus this time.  
  
“The second guard will spread out on the other side of the square,” Harry continued. His throat was throbbing with sickening speed. This was happening, really happening now. “They are to strike  _after_ I have raised a beast from the reverse Lightfinder and it has done its work. Do you understand? Not until the Light wizards are dazed and reeling.”  
  
“Yes, my Lord,” said Arsinoe Rosier, who moved a little forwards now. “May I apply to lead the second guard?”  
  
Harry half-smiled. He would have suggested her for it if she hadn’t volunteered. He wanted two divisions of guards to scatter and somewhat weaken his “followers,” and Rosier needed to be placated with something that looked like a position of power, lest she figure out the tactic. “You may. Your request is granted.”  
  
Rosier bowed, eyes glinting. Harry looked for a moment at the cobra coiled at her heels, and then away.  
  
“May I lead the first guard, my Lord?” Greyback looked as if he wanted to have a tail even in human form, so he could wag it.  
  
“I am not sure that I trust your control of your temper,” said Harry, looking directly at him. This was what he wanted, but he could hardly be seen wanting it. He waited until Greyback had made some attempt to flatten wolf ears that he didn’t have in this form, either, and was whining appealingly.  
  
“I can do anything you ask of me, my Lord.” Greyback managed to speak at last, and the words came through the whine in a way that made Harry have to clench his teeth. “If you tell me to stay still and out of sight, I  _will_. I  _can_. You know that?” He looked up at Harry.  
  
Harry didn’t want anyone other than Draco and Narcissa finding out about the nighttime trip he’d taken in Greyback’s company. He did have to nod and announce, “Then Arsinoe Rosier will lead the second guard, and Fenrir Greyback the first.”  
  
Greyback sprang to his feet and howled with happiness. Harry shook his head and turned to face Parkinson and Astoria, standing among the small cadre of wizards who would use illusions. “You’re ready? Do I need to explain to you  _again_  what I want?”  
  
They shook their heads, eyes wide. Harry kept his glance from lingering on Parkinson and Astoria, even though he wanted to. They had instructions to create illusions of themselves after the first barrage of distractions and then slip away. Harry only hoped they would listen.  
  
“Then,” Harry said, as he conjured a manacle for Draco and reached down to touch the back of the jeweled dragon that crouched unhappily on the arm of the throne, “let us march forth, my followers! For pleasure! For power! To win!”  
  
The chorus of shouts this time sounded almost like howls, although Greyback’s still rose above them all, making it sound as though the room was full of a werewolf pack. As he slipped the manacle around Draco’s wrist, Harry met and held his eyes.  
  
If he hadn’t seen a determination in Draco’s gaze as strong as the one that he felt, Harry honestly didn’t know if he could have gone through with this plan.  
  
*  
  
Draco kept his muscles tensed as Harry Apparated in to land a short distance away from the Lightfinder’s platform. Best to start playing the performance he needed to play, of the reluctant prisoner dragged along by the conquering Dark Lord, as soon as possible.  
  
That, and he didn’t know if he could have relaxed. His mind was speeding through the permutations of the plan as Harry had explained it to him.  
  
Harry wanted to bring as many of the Death Eaters along as possible and have the Ministry capture them, while still giving Draco and Astoria and Pansy—and Draco’s parents, although they had gone already—the chance to escape. The division of them into two honor guards was going to accomplish that, and the illusions would serve less to distract the real Ministry Aurors than to make it seem as if Harry was serious about the attack, for the Death Eaters’ benefit, and to hold the crowd in one place as the reverse Lightfinder worked. Meanwhile, the dragon and his friends would help in getting the Aurors into place. Harry had told Draco that. He’d sent a message to his friends last night.  
  
It had been a Patronus message, and Draco hadn’t actually seen it go. But he trusted Harry to have sent it. He didn’t think Harry wanted his plan to fail, either.  
  
The problem was that Harry had such a trust in Light wizards in the first place. What if they still decided to distrust him? What if their hatred of Harry, or the madness caused by the Lightfinder’s explosion, was so great that they didn’t get the Aurors into position to take the Death Eaters but to capture  _him_?  
  
Draco knew what he would do in that case. And it wouldn’t have any reference to the wishes and plans of Harry’s friends, and not much to Harry’s, either.  
  
They could argue about Draco taking Harry to safety, if it came to that,  _after_ Harry was safe.  
  
Draco found himself tensing up even more, to the point that his shoulders began to ache, as they walked through the empty streets, finally halting near the Lightfinder’s platform. This had been a place he’d anticipated being dragged for weeks, after all, when he had thought the Ministry might test him and reveal him as Dark.  
  
He still didn’t know what would happen.  
  
But then he saw a flicker of ruby and sapphire from the corner of his eye, and when he turned his head, he saw the dragon flying in. It landed on the upper corner of the platform for a second. Harry smiled.   
  
That was supposedly a signal that the Light wizards and Aurors were in place and the Lightfinder’s victims gathered. Draco turned his head slowly.  
  
There  _were_ people walking towards them, looking confused. Most wore the plain robes of Ministry workers, but there were some shopkeepers among them, too. The crowd that had been influenced by the Lightfinder’s explosion, Draco hoped. They would only get one chance to reverse the madness.  
  
If they could at all.  
  
Harry’s hand tightened on Draco’s arm for one moment. Draco leaned against him. It was the closest they could come to an embrace when they were like this.  
  
Then Harry reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out the shrunken reverse Lightfinder. Draco licked his lips and straightened as Harry cast the spells that would restore the machine to its normal size.  
  
 _Show time._  
  
*  
  
Harry raised his voice as he floated the reverse Lightfinder to the side of him, onto the platform. He had already cast a  _Sonorus_ Charm on his throat, luckily. It was the only way he could make himself heard, with the orchestra of screams at the sight of him.  
  
“Be still! I have come to offer Light wizards a chance to become even more Light, and those tainted with the Dark to find their way home!”  
  
The screams shut up more because of the strange-looking machine at his side than because they believed or trusted him, Harry thought. He could see several Ministry workers staring back and forth between him and the reverse Lightfinder. Others were paying attention to the dragon sitting on the edge of the stage.  
  
The dragon opened his mouth in a calm yawn, and then curled himself up as if he was going to sleep. Harry could only hope that he would actually play his next part in the plan.  
  
“I know you don’t trust me,” Harry said, as softly and gently as he could. Even though the Death Eaters who had escorted him and Draco were out of sight behind Disillusionment Charms, and the ones led by Rosier had come earlier and were likewise concealed, he thought he could feel their tension. “I used the excuse of Voldemort’s soul shard being in me for two reasons, though. I wanted to infiltrate the Death Eaters who had escaped prison and bring them to justice.” He paused, waiting for an attack. That was a possibility if one of the Death Eaters, despite thinking all his words were lies, decided the lies were a bit  _too_ convincing.  
  
Nothing happened other than some people in the crowd beginning to hoot and jeer, though. Harry shook his head and spoke again. “And to draw on their Dark Arts knowledge so I could create a machine that would get  _rid_ of Darkness.”  
  
“Not  _really_ ,” said someone who must be braver than the others, although Harry could still hear his voice shaking.  
  
“But yes,” said Harry. “Allow me to demonstrate.  _This_ Lightfinder doesn’t only detect the Darkness of one’s soul. It transforms Darkness into Light.” He reached out and conjured a snake in front of him.  
  
There were a few screams and bolting people from the edges of the crowd. Harry grimaced. He couldn’t help that. He would have to hope that the Aurors that Ron and Hermione had alerted—that he thought they’d alerted—could turn them back.  
  
 _And I have to hope that the Disillusioned Aurors and the Disillusioned Death Eaters don’t collide_.  
  
Harry banished the thoughts from his mind, and turned to look at Draco as he sent the asp into the reverse Lightfinder. Draco held his eyes. His own were madly determined, and Harry could read, as if he had Legilimency, Draco’s intention to grab him and Apparate out of here if this didn’t work.  
  
 _We’ll see,_ Harry thought to him, and said aloud, “I brought Draco Malfoy with me for one reason: to show you, after I transform this snake, how I can alter a Dark wizard’s mind.”  
  
That brought on a stir of reluctant interest. From the center of the crowd called someone who sounded like he could have been an Unspeakable. “And how can you do that, when the natures of Light and Dark magic are so embedded in our minds and souls?”  
  
Harry gave him a slow smile. “By changing the soul, of course.”  
  
There were excited little shrieks that reassured Harry. The madness inflicted by the first Lightfinder couldn’t have changed them that much. They still had the typical wizard’s desire for scandal and gossip.  
  
“And how will you do that?” continued the same speaker. Harry craned his neck to try and see them, but the middle of the crowd was packed with too many individual faces to find one person.  
  
“By using my new machine in the way I showed you,” Harry replied, and turned to face the reverse Lightfinder. He tugged Draco close to him as if he was afraid that Draco would try to run away.  
  
As he bowed his head in feigned concentration, he hissed into Draco’s ear, “If this goes wrong, remember your promise of getting away and surviving first.”  
  
Draco shivered and trembled, which effectively hid the way that his lips formed the word, “ _Yes_.” Harry gave a grim smile, and then really did start concentrating on the Lightfinder, where the asp had curled himself in front of the globe.  
  
The desire stirred in him. This was what he had to want most of all. Not just to cure Light wizards, or to have his friends take him back, because in both those cases what the snake would transform into wouldn’t be helpful to his ultimate goals.  
  
To heal the Light wizards and have his friends take him back  _because_ it would keep Draco safe, and make his life happy. Draco stood rigid beside him, and Harry knew he would never yield to the temptation simply to run and not look back, or accept a life separate from the imprisoned one Harry might soon have.  
  
Around his knowledge of Draco’s unyielding will, Harry bent and warped and wrapped his own concentration, and then he reached out to the Lightfinder with his magic.  
  
The buzzing power of the Lightfinder rose in consequence. Someone cried out in wonder behind them. Harry ignored them. He had to set aside the fear of knives in the back, of someone snatching Draco free, of his spells going wrong, to picture the single, desired, intense result.  
  
 _This is the truth. This is the reality. I want nothing more than this._  
  
And then the magic around the Lightfinder rose in a glorious, golden cloud, and Harry plunged his own mind and will fully into the battle to shape what he wanted.  
  
*  
  
Draco caught his breath as the power surged through his body and blood. He knew he probably had a greater reaction than a lot of people because the manacle around his wrist also connected him to Harry’s magic, but…  
  
It was wonderful. It was intoxicating. The cloud seemed to pour into Draco’s lungs and fill his chest with light. For a moment, he drifted above imaginary mountains, and his head was full to the point of bursting, with dreams and pursuits and furious hunts.  
  
Then he was himself again, but watching with dazed, enchanted eyes as the golden cloud coiled around Harry’s Lightfinder and the snake waiting inside.  
  
The snake began to stretch and pull, its body sparking with blue flames. Draco shielded his eyes a little as the flames turned back on each other in a corkscrew spiral and snapped together like a shutting door. When Draco could see again, there was a different kind of snake slowly swaying up from the floor of the Lightfinder.  
  
Not a snake, though, Draco realized a second later. Or a dragon. He had only seen it that way because of the utter liquid grace with which it moved. Instead, it was a cat, a lithe miniature leopard with glowing white spots on its coat of gold instead of black ones.   
  
And it had wings. It sprang into the air on translucent blue bat-pinions and hovered there, glancing from face to face as if it was searching out one person to specifically heal.  
  
The crowd was hushed now. Draco could imagine the expressions on their faces as they stared at the cat, which stared back and wriggled its whiskers. It rose higher and higher, and then spread its wings until it seemed impossible that it should continue hovering.  
  
Harry abruptly distracted him by disconnecting the manacle from his wrist. Draco glanced at him, startled, but Harry had turned and looked at the dragon sitting on the edge of the platform.  
  
The dragon rose casually and flew away. Draco tracked its flight for a few seconds with his eyes, until the leopard Harry had just created opened its mouth and burst into flame.  
  
The flames seemed to race around and outline its body, and then came from the inside, too. The leopard didn’t cry out, although Draco winced again and again at the pain that he thought even a magical creature would suffer from that fire. It dived straight down at the crowd, and people began to scream and scatter.  
  
They couldn’t scatter fast enough. The burning sparks of the leopard fell on them, ringing their heads in coronas of fire. Draco saw a few of them stop running and screaming as they figured out that the fire wasn’t burning them, but most of the crowed plunged like the panicked sheep they were towards the exits from the square.  
  
At that moment, the illusions Harry had told Pansy, Astoria, and a few others to cast came to life. Walls of stone, fire, and brick sprouted from the earth, blocking access to the streets—or so the people would imagine. They turned back, wailing.  
  
Then the wailing stopped as though someone had turned off a spigot. Draco found himself rising on his toes to see exactly what was going on. People were kneeling, reaching for their heads and hair, clawing at their ears with their fingers.  
  
But the transformation that covered them wasn’t accompanied by pain.  
  
Instead, flakes of black ash coalesced on the spectators’ shoulders and around their heads, and flew up and whirled around and danced in the air as though they were going to make a leopard of their own. White flakes followed them, then orange and gold and blue, all the colors of fire. For a moment, Draco  _did_ think he saw a long mosaic of leopard faces, each of them made of a different hue, staring and snarling over the square.  
  
But they collapsed and burned out, disappearing, and the Light wizards were left kneeling with their hands slowly falling from their heads, staring in puzzlement into each other’s faces.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
Harry’s voice was harsh and trembling with effort. Draco turned towards him, and saw spells exploding from one side of the square, flickering like ghostly fires through the illusions. He thought the Aurors must have joined battle with Arsinoe Rosier’s group of Death Eaters, and grimaced a little. He wished he knew whether Rosier had discovered the betrayal or whether the Aurors had simply ambushed her people.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, keeping his voice low in case someone had time to glance up at the platform and notice that he was free.  
  
“Go when I tell you to.”  
  
Draco bit down sharply on his lip. He had agreed to do this, and his reasons for wanting to remain free were still the same. He nodded, and Harry gave him the one smile Draco had seen from him since the end of their shower, before he turned to face the crowd again.  
  
The illusions were fading, and Draco could see a few befuddled-looking Death Eaters turning to face the attacking Aurors. There was no sign of Pansy and Astoria save a few colored smudges that imitated the pattern of Pansy’s robes. Draco hoped that meant they had taken Harry’s orders and used illusions to disguise their flight.  
  
“ _Now_ do you believe me?” Harry called out, his voice soft and exhausted. “The original Lightfinder turned your fear to paranoia when it collapsed, and it was spreading paranoia in the months before that.  _Now_ do you see what I was trying to do?”  
  
There was a curse soaring towards Harry’s head, suddenly. It hadn’t come from the crowd in front of him, which was nodding. It hadn’t come from the battle. It could only have come from the hidden Death Eaters that Greyback led.   
  
Draco had no idea what to do. He was grabbing, fumbling, for his wand, which was in Harry’s pocket, but he wasn’t going to be in time. He had no idea what was going to happen—  
  
Then there was a multicolored streak flashing in between Harry and the spell, and Draco saw the dragon open its mouth and swallow the spell as though it was a large insect. The dragon spent a moment licking its jaws, and then soared up again and bellowed.  
  
A fierce howl cleaved the air as if in response, and Draco whirled around. If Greyback bit anyone, then Harry would lose his chance at telling people he hadn’t meant to harm them.  
  
But instead, Greyback had his hands clenched around the neck of someone that Draco thought was Rabastan Lestrange. Lestrange was fumbling at his throat in response, and Greyback howled again and hurled him to the ground.  
  
“For the honor of our Lord!” Greyback snarled before dropping on Lestrange with claws and teeth.  
  
Draco spun around to see how Harry was and how the battle was going. He didn’t think the other Death Eaters with Greyback would be a problem for now, although the Aurors might not capture all of them immediately in the way that Harry had hoped.  
  
Harry was standing within a protective, shimmering circle of charms. Even as Draco watched, he cast another Shield Charm to add to the ones around him, and then turned and nodded at Draco.  
  
“The way we discussed,” he said.  
  
“You have no idea how they’re going to react to you yet,” Draco said. How he kept his voice low and charged in the middle of such chaos amazed him. He supposed he must have some of his mother’s strength in him after all. “I want to stay by your side until we know for sure whether they’re going to arrest you or not.”  
  
“I can’t let you take that risk!” Harry made a pretty impressive show himself, banging his hand down on nothing but air. “You  _agreed_ —”  
  
“If I knew that I wouldn’t be able to stay with you, yes! I don’t know that yet!”  
  
The air around them gleamed, torn with the glimmer and fret of battle, and screams from people as they Apparated out. Harry raised one hand as though he was going to take Draco’s shoulder and shove him out of the range of the shields.  
  
Then another spell came through the shields as though they didn’t exist and laid Harry low, and Draco saw perfectly well who cast  _that_. Someone in scarlet Auror robes, hurtling towards the platform through the crowd and shouting.  
  
The dragon swooped low a minute too late. Draco snarled up at it, wondering why it hadn’t blocked the spell that had felled Harry this time. The dragon landed on his shoulder and gave a shrill cry.  
  
Draco closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do, as long as the Ministry was hostile to Harry. And he had only moments, likely, before the Aurors either Stunned him, too, or raised spells that made it impossible for him to escape.  
  
He Apparated, the dragon clinging to his shoulders and his mouth filled with the blazing taste of failure.


	39. The Resting Hours

Harry leaned his head over to the side and spat. He hated the particular taste left in his mouth when a Stunner wore off. Ron always said there wasn’t one, but Harry thought he’d been Stunned more often than Ron, and he  _knew_.  
  
It was better to think about the taste in his mouth than to think about the situation he was in, though. Particularly when he was sitting in a cell that had no windows and no sign that anyone had ever come there in years, other than a general absence of dust on the floor. They hadn’t even given him a chair  _and_ a bed, just a little mattress like the one that Harry used to sleep on in the cupboard.  
  
And the amulet the Unseen had given him, the one that had let him lie to anyone around him with ease, was gone.  
  
Harry leaned further back and settled his shoulders against the wall. The worst thing was the boredom. He hadn’t seen anyone. They kept Stunning him when they brought food and then casting the reversal on him from a distance, so Harry would just wake up to find a tray of soup and bread steaming on the floor. He was getting tired of glimpsing only the edge of a wand around the door.  
  
He didn’t know whether Draco had escaped. He didn’t know whether they had captured all the Death Eaters. He didn’t know how much the Ministry believed him, or what the effects of the reverse Lightfinder and the leopard might have been.   
  
He didn’t know where Ron and Hermione were, or what they were thinking.  
  
But Harry thought that  _perhaps_ Draco had escaped. It was highly likely they would have shown up to torment him if Draco hadn’t, by taunting him that they’d captured someone he’d been plotting with. Or tried to tempt him by making a deal for Draco’s freedom, in exchange for the facts.  
  
Harry would choke them with facts, if they gave him the chance. That they kept Stunning him argued that they thought he was really dangerous.  
  
 _Or the Unseen are in charge, and they don’t want any more of their precious futures to be messed up._  
  
The door creaked, and Harry tensed, ready to spring up and move if he had to. But instead of a wand, an actual person stepped around the side of the door this time, and stared at him with so piercing a gaze that Harry clenched his hands.  
  
It was Kingsley, and beside him was someone in a cloak Harry thought was probably a member of the Unseen, not just an Unspeakable. That person lingered near the door with their head bowed, though. Harry turned to Kingsley and sat there. He saw no point in saying something until Kingsley did.  
  
“Harry,” Kingsley finally whispered, and shook his head. “ _How_ could you have plotted with Death Eaters? Pretended to be Lord Voldemort?”  
  
“The same way you could have fallen victim to the Lightfinder, and started thinking I would destroy the wizarding world because of what color my aura was.”  
  
Kingsley paused. Then he turned to the Unseen member. The hooded head shook, but Harry couldn’t hear any words.  
  
“That’s—not the confession we were hoping for,” said Kingsley, and turned back to Harry.  
  
Harry remembered something Kingsley had said once, back when he was in the habit of imparting small bits of information about Aurors to Harry like tidbits that would lure him into training. He sat up. “I’ll confess everything. I just want to be under Veritaserum and in front of the Wizengamot when I do it.”  
  
Kingsley froze. But what made Harry all the happier was that the Unseen by the door had gone still.  
  
“What?” Kingsley whispered. “No one has invoked their right to a Truth Trial in decades.”  
  
“I know. You told me that. But you also told me that it was the right of every criminal no matter what they were accused of.” Harry met Kingsley’s eyes and smiled a little. “Or does that change for people who’ve pretended to be Dark Lords and were  _really_ victims of the Ministry?”  
  
Kingsley jerked as if he was offended, and didn’t turn to look at the Unseen this time. Harry couldn’t help doing it, and he could see the frantically shaking head and the open mouth.  
  
But Kingsley didn’t look, and he was the one who said, “Of course we treat any criminals fairly. It’s wrong to say we  _don’t._ ”  
  
“Good.” Harry tried to sit there and look as though he was cool and composed and didn’t even have to care about the answer, because he was so absurdly righteous and in the right. It shouldn’t have been harder than pretending he was a murderous bastard for the Death Eaters, and that was something he had a lot of practice at, so maybe he did manage better than it felt as if he did. Which was “not at all.” “Then I can have my Truth Trial?”  
  
“You will,” said Kingsley shortly. “It’ll take two days to assemble the Wizengamot and enough Veritaserum to make sure that it won’t wear off during the trial.”  
  
“And a list of the questions that they’re permitted to ask?” Harry knew there were few enough restrictions during a trial like this, which was another reason that not many people invoked their right to one anymore, but there had to be some.  
  
“Yes.” Kingsley hesitated. “Although you’re not permitted to see it before the trial, you understand. It would give you too much chance to think up ways to resist the Veritaserum.”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Does anyone actually manage to do that?”  
  
“People who have sufficiently strong wills sometimes can deflect questions or only tell part of the truth.” Kingsley glanced over his shoulder again. “And Healer Jungle here was telling me that you have sufficient strength to resist the Imperius Curse. That might mean Veritaserum would be less effective in this case than with some other people.”  
  
 _Healer Jungle?_ The name was as false as Oratory’s had been, of course, but Harry doubted that the Unseen changed their pseudonyms all the time, either. People who weren’t part of their exalted Order had to have  _something_ to call them.  
  
“Then you can try it on me now.” Harry was curious to see if they would. Maybe he could get some indication of how Kingsley felt towards him.  
  
Kingsley took a step back as if Harry had conjured another snake, or leopard. “No. That’s—all right. I think that we can trust you to tell the truth since you were the one to call for the trial in the first place.”  
  
His gaze lingered curiously on Harry, as if he wanted to ask about his motivations anyway. But the Unseen murmured something, and Kingsley nodded, said, “I’ll go talk to the Wizengamot members and make sure that they know all the procedures for a Truth Trial,” and left the cell.  
  
Healer Jungle remained. Harry watched, and the hood flew back with a wave of one hand that had a skeletal glamour on it. The face beneath the hood looked like a skull, too, although one with a crown on top of it. Harry glanced down into the empty eyesockets that weren’t empty, and smiled a little.  
  
“I’ve seen more frightening illusions than that,” he said. “And met more frightening things within my own mind.”  
  
“That does not surprise me.” Healer Jungle’s voice was hollow and booming, like the closing of grand doors. More impressive than the skull he supposedly had for a face, Harry had to admit. “You have caused a great many troubles. It would be astonishing if you never regretted your actions.”  
  
Harry sat there with his hands folded in his lap, and said nothing, except for giving Healer Jungle a penetrating stare. Jungle turned away from Harry and fiddled for a moment with something Harry couldn’t see.  
  
When he turned back around, he held a heavy golden globe in his hand. “Do you recognize this?”  
  
Harry glanced at it. But aside from some shadows sliding over the surface, it was blank. “No,” he said, and turned to Jungle.  
  
“This was one of our maps of the future,” Jungle said harshly. “A reliable one. One that still showed several possibilities of what could come to be, but mapped them with remarkably little divergence from each other. We knew the major events that threatened wizarding Britain, and we could predict them and learn from them.”  
  
“I didn’t wipe your memories,” Harry said quietly. “Can’t you remember what those possibilities were and still learn from them?”  
  
Jungle closed his hand over the globe. “We  _knew_ what they were.” He opened his hand again, and the globe was gone, but Harry could do nonverbal magic like that, too, and he remained silent. “Now we don’t know. All our maps of the future went blank at the same instant.”  
  
“Which one was that?” Harry knew what Jungle would say, but there might be something interesting or noteworthy in the way he phrased it.  
  
“The moment when you took your magic back from Lethe.” Jungle moved a step closer and stood looking at Harry for a moment as if he assumed that his height might intimidate Harry. Then he spun away with an exclamation of disgust when Harry only sat there and looked at him.  
  
But he had said something unexpected, if not intimidating, and Harry took a moment to sit there and think about it. He had assumed it would be the moment the Lightfinder exploded, because that had literally changed people’s minds. He had almost forgotten about Lethe, honestly. He had taken his magic back. That was all that mattered when it came to Splinter’s machine.  
  
“You can’t have expected I would just sit there and passively let the Ministry consume my magic,” he told Jungle’s back. “Why did you think that?”  
  
“Because you had been the hero several times before, and the possibilities pointed towards you being the hero again.”  
  
“Not the hero,” said Harry, as he understood and blinked his way through it. “The sacrifice. You thought I would let Lethe take my magic, and then you could—what?”  
  
Jungle looked at him in scorn and looked away again. “You changed things,” he said flatly. “You’re trying to change them again. I can tell you that it will not work. For centuries, we have watched the possibilities and guided them to the best outcome for the wizarding world. We will do the same again.”  
  
He left, slamming the cell door behind him. Harry sat there and stared at it, wondering what in the world was going to happen. Did this mean the Unseen would try to cancel his trial? Influence the Wizengamot members to cast him into prison? Take his magic by some other means?  
  
And why would Lethe taking his magic lead to the outcomes that the Unseen wanted anyway?  
  
He slept badly that night, barely tasting the food they’d given him, and woke up early in the morning to spend more time staring uselessly at the blank walls.  
  
*  
  
“You are not going back to rescue Potter.”  
  
Draco didn’t bother looking up from his intense study of the Ministry plans that he’d found in the little house his parents had fled to. Of course his mother had rescued books from the Manor that had things like that in them.   
  
It wasn’t worth arguing with his father over something that certainly  _was_ going to happen. Besides, the dragon sitting on the floor beside Draco reared up and did it for him, hissing with small curls of steam exploding beside his nostrils.  
  
Lucius withdrew from the library.  
  
Draco reached down and trailed one hand over the dragon’s warm spine, the way Harry used to do. The dragon didn’t move away and spend time rubbing pointedly against the wall as if to remove his touch, however, the way Draco had also seen him do with Harry. Instead, claws rasped against the table, and a jewel-colored muzzle appeared beside Draco, aimed at the book.  
  
“I do intend to rescue him,” Draco told the dragon quietly.  
  
The dragon glanced at him and stretched his claws out, gently touching the edge of the page.  
  
“But I can’t do it if you rip the book,” Draco ended, and moved the map further away.  
  
The dragon lay down beside the book, neck still stretched out as if it wanted to keep an eye on the map and make sure it didn’t change.  
  
Draco smiled faintly. Then he looked back at the map and studied it again.  
  
The map showed all sorts of secret passages and hidden doors and underground entrances and tiny areas free of Apparition-preventing spells that someone could land in. Draco’s ancestors had contributed money to construct the Ministry building and make sure that it would contain at least some of their own secrets. That meant Draco could in theory go lots of places inside the Ministry.   
  
Theory suffered a blow when it came to the fact that Draco absolutely couldn’t predict where they would keep Harry, or for how long. And if they announced a trial place and date, that might not help. It would be far harder to break in during the middle of a trial than it would be into a hidden cell.  
  
Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The last thing—well, not the last, but the one that came after all the other considerations—that bothered him was the promise he had made to Harry, to let him have a shot at convincing his friends. If Draco intervened too early and took Harry away from the Ministry, that meant he’d look guilty and probably never be cleared of guilt in the eyes of Light wizards.  
  
After the performance with the reverse Lightfinder and the leopard, Draco thought that Light wizards who couldn’t accept Harry’s innocence were idiots, and not worth the cost of trying to convince someone. But Harry had made him promise, and Draco intended to keep that promise.  
  
Not least because, if he didn’t, he would have to deal with Harry feeling guilty and wondering  _again_ if he could have changed their minds. Draco didn’t want to have to deal with that ever again, once Harry was out of Ministry clutches.  
  
He finally sat back from the map and closed his eyes. The same map appeared on the back of his eyelids, gleaming in cool blue, with red spots indicating the most dangerous places to Apparate or try to rescue someone from, and green spots showing the next most dangerous ones.  
  
“All right,” Draco breathed slowly. “So all we have to do is wait until we know for sure what they’re going to do with Harry.”  
  
The dragon screeched.  
  
Draco spun around with his wand in his hand. If his father was going to come and Stun him or something else equally stupid and sneaky…  
  
But it was a shadowy silver otter, which looked at him with dubious eyes and said, “Malfoy, we have some questions about the time you and Harry spent among the Death Eaters. Come to Godric’s Hollow at midnight tomorrow.”  
  
In seconds, the otter had dissolved, and Draco sat back and set to work choking down both his excitement and his hope.  
  
*  
  
Harry marched into the courtroom where the Wizengamot liked to gather and looked around, ignoring the balconies and galleries and chairs packed full of staring people. This was going to be better than the trial he’d had for using magic in front of Muggles during his fifth year in one way and only one. Harry knew what he was on trial for this time, and he knew more about his chances of surviving it.  
  
Otherwise, it was worse. But at least Harry didn’t think he had to worry about Death Eaters cursing him anymore. He hadn’t dared to ask Kingsley about whether any Death Eaters had escaped, just in case they decided that meant he was concerned about their fates and thus about them as people, but at least no one else had decided to accuse him of plotting to let them escape, either.  
  
There was the single chair, but this time, several people stood around it. All of them wore Auror robes, except a hooded person Harry was sure was a member of the Unseen. And there was one person in fussy green robes, examining a potions vial with a keen eye.  
  
 _Probably a Healer or whoever brewed the Veritaserum,_ Harry thought, as he strode over to the chair. The Aurors behind him would prod him if he was too slow, anyway, and that wasn’t the sort of impression he wanted to create on the Wizengamot.  
  
The woman turned around as he came up to her, and Harry saw the bone-and-wand symbol of St. Mungo’s on her robes. She examined Harry in much the same way she’d examined the potion. “Minister Shacklebolt says you have a strong will.”  
  
“I’m also the one who invoked my right to a Truth Trial. I’m not going to fight it.” Harry sat down in the chair when one of the Aurors prodded him, and winced a little as the chains snaked out from the arms and grabbed onto him. “I appreciate that it’s hard to believe, though.”  
  
The Healer nodded and studied him some more. She had cloudy grey eyes, but she didn’t remind Harry of an Unseen, except in the intensity of her gaze. “I’ve brewed the Veritaserum myself. Any attempt to interfere with its proper administration will…bother me.”  
  
Harry smiled politely at her. “I don’t plan to interfere, Healer.”  
  
“Good,” said the Healer, and stepped back and looked around the courtroom. Harry looked with her. He thought every single member of the Wizengamot was there, unless maybe there were some old or sick ones missing. And every one of them was either glaring at him or looked scared.  
  
 _Wonderful._ Well, Harry supposed that even curing the irrational fear the Lightfinder had spread wouldn’t make people less afraid of him.  
  
“The trial will start now,” called Kingsley’s voice at last. Harry turned his head a little and saw him sitting off to the side, a member of the Unseen who was probably Jungle next to him. Then one of the Aurors standing behind the chair prodded him again, and Harry bit his lip to keep from retaliating and faced the front again.  
  
Kingsley made a long speech about how Harry had invoked his right to the Truth Trial, and the kinds of questions the Wizengamot could ask and those they couldn’t. It seemed that only questions about Harry’s sexual activities and Hogwarts marks were off-limits. Harry noticed that the Healer got stiffer and stiffer in the back as the speech went on, but he didn’t know if that had to do with anger or something else.  
  
Finally, Kingsley looked straight at Harry. “Are you sure that wish to proceed with the Truth Trial?” he asked, sounding as if he was pleading for Harry to do something else.  
  
 _What, afraid of what’s going to come out and make you look like a fool, Minister?_ Harry didn’t remove his gaze from Kingsley as he replied, “Yes, I am.”  
  
Kingsley sighed as though he didn’t know why people insisted on being idiots. Harry bit his tongue before he could tell Kingsley to glance around him, and concentrated on looking as bored and patient as possible while the Healer turned to him with the Veritaserum.  
  
“You know what this potion is,” said the Healer.  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, and watched as calmly as he could. His heart was beating fast, but as far as he knew, no one in the chamber was a werewolf. They shouldn’t be able to hear it and make any decisions based on it.  
  
“You know what it does.” The Healer sung the vial back and forth as if she was hoping to hypnotize him with the swinging silver liquid inside it.  
  
“I do.” Harry smiled at her and waited some more.  
  
“And you agree to take it,” said the Healer, and raised her voice a little. Maybe she had enemies on the Wizengamot that she wanted to see react to this, Harry thought, or maybe she was just making sure everyone heard. “Of your own free will?”  
  
“I do,” said Harry. Make his replies as spare as possible, and there were fewer things they could twist around on him and pick apart for mistakes later.  
  
The Healer studied him one more time, apparently needing to be convinced. The Aurors behind Harry were muttering. Harry shut them up by extending his tongue and leaning his face forwards.  
  
The Healer chuckled. Harry blinked a little, surprised to hear her make such a human sound, and in that moment the Healer moved neatly forwards and dripped three drops of the Veritaserum on his tongue.  
  
The world seemed to slow down and turn sideways. Harry could feel barriers in his mind that he’d raised drying up and blowing away. He slumped a little in his chair. His vision was clear, but it felt as though his inhibitions had taken a holiday.  
  
Kingsley moved forwards a single step. “I have questions to ask you, but first the test questions. What is your name?”  
  
“Harry James Potter.” Even the words seemed to form in the air in front of him, although Harry didn’t actually see the letters. He watched them in interest as their invisible forms also dried up and blew away.  
  
“What are you most known for?”  
  
Harry heard someone muttering on the Wizengamot, seemingly over Kingsley’s choice of question, but  _he_ had no problem with it. “Defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort.”  
  
That made a few people scream. Harry had no time to wonder why before Kingsley was off on the next tangent, charging ahead with a resigned air. “Why were you being tested with the Lightfinder?”  
  
“Because you were convinced that I would test Light, and so I would be a test case to prove the Lightfinder worked.”  
  
Harry was close enough to see Kingsley flush. He coughed and said, “Yes. Well. Members of the Wizengamot, the floor is yours.” He backed away until Harry couldn’t see him, although Harry was convinced he was closely watching from the side.  
  
The woman who leaned forwards looked slightly familiar, but Harry’s brain was still sliding in and out of focus, and she spoke before he could decide why she looked that way. “You said that you were the host of a shard of You-Know-Who’s soul. Is that true?”  
  
“At one time, it was.”  _Of course they would start with the worst thing they possibly could,_ said a part of him not subdued by the Veritaserum.  _It’s all true._  
  
Half the audience jerked in shock. It seemed that the rest of them started murmuring, and the voices grew into a roar that overwhelmed the next question asked. Harry just sat there. He couldn’t answer questions that he couldn’t hear.  
  
Finally, someone managed to shout, “You’re saying that you don’t have the shard  _now?_  What did you do with it?”  
  
“Voldemort killed it when he fired the Killing Curse at me in the Forbidden Forest.”  
  
For a moment, Harry’s real feelings broke through the dullness that the Veritaserum imposed on him. It was  _amusing_ to see these people reeling with shock, their defenses broken, and trying to deal with the truth their own questions were bringing forth.  
  
What Harry thought was the same woman from before snapped, “What were you, if you had the connection to You-Know-Who? Is that why you turned Dark?”  
  
“I was a Horcrux. I didn’t know I was Dark until the Lightfinder test.”  
  
“What did you do when you plotted with the Death Eaters?”  
  
“I pretended to be Voldemort until I could maneuver them into a position where I thought the Ministry could trap them.”  
  
There was more murmuring, but this time, the question got through to Harry clearly, although he couldn’t see who’d asked it. “Why did you think that you had to do something so insane instead of coming to the Ministry for help?”  
  
“Because the Lightfinder had affected your minds and driven you mad with irrational fears of Dark wizards. This was the only way I could think of to get some time to come up with a means that would restore your sanity.”  
  
And then the world…went grey. Harry’s first thought was that it was some strange side-effect of the Veritaserum no one had ever told him about, and then he saw Jungle and the Unseen who had been beside his chair moving towards him.  
  
Jungle held the brass globe that he had shown Harry in his cell, or one just like it. The other one held a flat, gleaming, triangular black rock in his hand that had a smaller triangle of silver imprinted on it.  
  
“Now,” said Jungle softly. “To change the future back to what it  _should_ be.”


	40. The Setting Hours

“I’m here. Show yourself.”  
  
Draco thought the challenge was a little silly, perhaps, but he had the dragon with him, and the Muggle portion of the village seemed to be sleeping. Besides, Granger hadn’t said  _where_ Draco was supposed to meet her in Godric’s Hollow. Maybe by the ruins of Harry’s house, but Draco had never been here before and wasn’t going to wander around searching for it.  
  
So, when he’d come near the statue that changed to reveal baby Harry with his parents, Draco had decided that was far enough. He would stand here, and they could either come to him or not.  
  
There was a long, ringing silence that seemed to fill the air with cold. Then the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm moved off to the side, and slipped off to reveal Weasley and Granger.  
  
Draco tensed, but at least he didn’t jump, thanks to the dragon spreading his wings and hissing a little a second before the charm dissipated. Weasley and Granger moved towards him, their wands both drawn.  
  
Draco counted steps. When they were about twenty from him, he drew his own wand. They froze and looked at him.  
  
“I’m not Harry,” Draco said calmly into the silence between them. “He’s a much better person, and I promised I would let him have a chance to prove his goodness to you, but that only means not attacking you. I’ll  _defend_ myself.”  
  
The dragon sat up and flapped its wings once, as if adding his voice to the consensus. Weasley and Granger looked at each other, silently conferring, and then Granger nodded and moved forwards.  
  
“We need to know what Harry was doing with you,” she said.  
  
Draco frowned. Were they going to require some storytelling from the very beginning of the time when he’d gone to Harry? He’d thought they’d known about that. Granger had certainly come and visited Grimmauld Place when he was there.  
  
“He was planning a rebellion,” Draco still began, obediently. If he tried, he could keep it short, mostly by not giving them the chance to ask questions. “And he thought he could get the Ministry to realize that—”  
  
“ _That’s_ not what she means,” Weasley snapped. “We want to know what she was doing with  _your lot_. Death Eaters,” he elaborated, maybe because of the blank look that Draco could feel on his own face.   
  
Draco had to control himself severely then, when he wanted to yell about the differences and be done with them. But again, he had made a promise to Harry that came before everything else. And that was the only thing that kept him standing here and looking at them.   
  
That needn’t matter, though, as long as he could do it. He said quietly, “Harry was pretending to be Voldemort, to fool them.”  
  
Weasley leaped at the name, but Draco saw the way Granger’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. She had probably noticed his use of the Dark Lord’s name rather than his title. Draco stood there and looked back fearlessly as the dragon settled down on his shoulder once again and Granger made whatever calculations she needed to make.  
  
“Why would he need to do that?” she asked. “What plans could he have that involved them?”  
  
“They were an obstacle that needed to be dealt with,” Draco said. “And he needed them to be spies and messengers and get him the ingredients he needed to build the reverse Lightfinder. So he pretended to be Voldemort—” really, the way Weasley flinched was very satisfying “—and he overawed them into doing what he wanted.”  
  
“He didn’t need to do that,” Weasley whispered fiercely. “He could just have come home.”  
  
“With everyone as mad as they were after the Lightfinder exploded?” Draco gave him a polite, nasty smile. “Excuse me for not believing that.”  
  
“It  _is_ true,” Granger said. “We would have hidden him and stood by him. I don’t know why Harry decided that the Death Eaters were the better bet.”  
  
“Because he didn’t have much choice when they came into his house and I decided that the best way of chasing them off would be imitating Voldemort’s laugh,” said Draco wearily. He already felt as though he had told this story a hundred times before. But Harry, with people interrogating him, would probably have to tell it more often.  
  
The thought gave Draco courage. He straightened his back and looked from face to face to make sure both Weasley and Granger were paying attention before he continued. “There were clever Death Eaters it would have been hard to fool there, and Fenrir Greyback, who’s not hard to fool but too stubborn to simply gave up once he believed he’d found his Lord again. Harry did the best he could. And he succeeded in burning that madness out of the people who were caught in the Lightfinder’s explosion. You  _must_ have noticed the difference.”  
  
“Well, yes,” said Weasley reluctantly. “They’d accused my brother of being Dark and then imprisoned my sister-in-law when she went to rescue him, and they’re not upset about that now. But of course people are still afraid of Dark wizards. And they’re still upset about Harry.”  
  
“Harry told lies he didn’t have to,” Granger said. “He stirred up rebellion when he didn’t have to. I’m afraid the Ministry is still going to find things to try him for even if being tested Dark in the Lightfinder isn’t a crime anymore.”  
  
“He’ll tell the truth in his trial,” Draco said. “He told me that he was going to request Veritaserum.” He considered, for half-a-second, about telling them the other things Harry had said.  
  
But he rejected the notion. If Harry’s friends wouldn’t help him because they knew that he was in dread of the Ministry, then they didn’t deserve Harry. If it never came up and Harry never had to flee the wizarding world, then he would only be upset that Draco had got his friends rattled and on the defensive.  
  
“A Truth Trial,” Granger breathed, and Draco noticed the specific name. It was evidently something she knew about. Maybe Harry had, too. “That could work, yes. But it’s still an awful risk to take.” Her eyes came back to Draco. “And why did he take the risk for  _you_ , of all people?”  
  
Draco could have said lots of things, but again, most of them went back to the beginning of the story, which Weasley and Granger already thought they knew all about. And he didn’t know if he  _could_ tell them about what he and Harry had gone through in the hidden manor, the way that Harry had healed his father and the promises they’d made to each other.  
  
Instead, he said, as blandly as he could when he wanted to scream and laugh at the same time, “I’m his lover.”  
  
Weasley and Granger stood still enough that Draco really thought he’d frozen them, and considered snapping his fingers in front of their faces. That would probably only cause more trouble for Harry in the end, though. He folded his arms instead, and the dragon reared up and flapped his wings as though he was prepared to swoop out and burn people’s hair if it would help.  
  
“No,” said Granger. “You’re not.”  
  
“You  _can’t_ be,” said Weasley.  
  
Draco lost his temper. But not in the kind of screaming way that he had with his father. Instead, he enunciated his words in a cold, clear tone that he hoped Granger and Weasley would take note of. “You can accuse me of lying and stand here doubting Harry all you want. And then he’ll probably walk away from you even if the Ministry acquits him. He’s been through  _enough_. You don’t know what it’s like, playacting for your life in front of people who would torture you to death in a minute. You can challenge him and talk to him and forgive him, but you can’t stand here deciding I’m lying and that you’ll never believe him again.  _Listen_  to me, you pair of Gryffindor idiots. Why would I lie about something like this? Why would I say that we were lovers instead of friends, if it wasn’t true? Why wouldn’t I come up with a story about life-debts and Harry feeling sorry for me, instead? Why not go with the lie that was simpler to accept, if I was lying?”  
  
Weasley and Granger exchanged uncertain glances. Then Granger shook her head a little and turned to Draco. “It’s just that Harry did a lot of ethically dubious things, and this is another of them.”  
  
The dragon hissed. Draco let the sound express some of his frustration, and only said, “Sleeping with me is ethically dubious.  _I_ see. Do you think I seduced and raped him? Do you think Harry would really go on being fooled by me all these weeks if  _that_  had happened?”  
  
Granger finally frowned in a way that made Draco think some of the point was getting through.  _Some_ of the point. She was much denser than he’d thought from Harry’s description of her. She put one hand on Weasley’s arm and murmured something that made him bristle, then sigh and nod.  
  
“No,” Granger said. “I don’t think that you could fool Harry for that long.” She turned and faced Draco. “But what  _do_ you intend to do? From the sound of it, Harry accomplished what he meant to. The effects of the madness are gone, and the—reverse Lightfinder worked. What are we supposed to do now?”  
  
Draco half-relaxed. Granger was more pleasant when she was looking to him for advice than when she was accusing him of crimes that she couldn’t even name, they were so foul. “I think we ought to go and rescue Harry, of course.”  
  
Granger paused. “Before the trial?”  
  
“Are you sure they’re going to allow him the option of a trial? Or will they throw him in prison and keep him there until the world ends?”  
  
Granger shook her head. “You must not have heard,” she said, and Draco let her get away with sounding superior then, he was so hungry for news. “They’re going to put Harry on trial tomorrow, most likely. They’re gathering the Wizengamot.” She hesitated. “They said—they said it was for a Truth Trial, but I didn’t know if I believed them.”  
  
 _Are you always this slow to follow Harry? Or do you not trust him to know what he’s doing?_ Once again, Draco held his peace, because nothing would go well for anyone if he screwed this up, and just nodded. “Then we need to be ready to take him out of there if the trial doesn’t go well.”  
  
“What would you define as not going well, though?” Weasley demanded. “If they decide that Harry is guilty—”  
  
“Of  _what_?” Draco swung on him this time, because the dragon was stretching its wings and hissing, and he decided that meant Harry’s friends were over the border of what was allowable as well. “He  _played_  Voldemort. He didn’t torture the Death Eaters unless they forced him into it. He pretended to create Dark creatures and Light ones and torture me and my friends to make sure that we could survive. It’s not something he  _wanted_ to do.”  
  
“But there’s still whatever he did in the Ministry the day the Lightfinder exploded,” Granger said. Her voice was gentler now, at least. Maybe she could really believe that Draco cared about Harry, too. “I don’t know what it is. Kingsley didn’t seem to know how to explain it clearly. And the involvement he had with the Lightfinder’s explosion.”  
  
“That’s why he spent all the time he did coming up with a way to fix it. He fixed it. He’s atoned for it.” Draco found standing here and talking about atonement with Gryffindors more bizarre than he had playing Harry’s loyal Death Eater.  
  
“But the Wizengamot has to decide on that,” Granger said. “From what you said, it’ll be no problem, when there’s a Truth Trial and they can know that every word he’s speaking under Veritaserum is true.”  
  
Draco snarled. “Do you trust them to believe it, though? Any more than you did at first?”  
  
Granger stirred restlessly, but it was Weasley who spoke. “What are  _you_ going to do, if they decide to put him into Azkaban?”  
  
“Take him out.”  
  
Granger shook her head and chopped down with one hand as if that would cut the tension thickening in the air between him and Weasley. “We don’t even know what’s going to happen yet. And there are bunches of people who felt sorry for Harry and assumed he was forced into this even when the worst rumors were circulating about him. We ought to wait and see what happens before we decide one way or the other.”  
  
“We can’t wait,” Draco said. “Not if it goes badly tomorrow. I’d rather take him out of the Ministry than try to assault Azkaban.”  
  
“ _Wait_ ,” said Granger, and glared at him. “I don’t want Harry to go to Azkaban any more than you do, and I’ll certainly protest it if it happens. But we don’t know if that’s what’s going to happen yet. And Harry would hate it if you disrupted the trial process and took him out of there. It would just make him look more suspicious than ever.”  
  
Draco was glad, now, that he hadn’t told them about Harry’s promise to come with Draco if his trial didn’t work out. They would just argue some more about believing. They didn’t see the truth the way Draco did.  
  
Their Harry Potter, the good little Light wizard and friend who believed in and trusted the Ministry, was gone. Probably he never would come back. But Granger and Weasley didn’t want to believe that, and were being obnoxious with it. Who knew how long it would take them to admit the whole truth to themselves?  
  
Well, Draco wasn’t going to stand around and wait for them to admit it. Harry was more important, ultimately, to Draco than his friends were.  
  
“Yes, he would hate it,” he agreed, and let the conversation drift into other channels, although they really had nothing more to tell him and he had answered most of their major questions.  
  
When they’d left, though, Draco stood a moment with his hand on the dragon’s back, and felt the fire churning bright and hot under his spine. He whispered, “It occurs to me that dragonfire could be really useful in an attack on the Ministry. If we had to make one. What do you think?”  
  
The dragon tilted back his head and threw a long lance of pure white flame into the night, in answer.  
  
*  
  
Harry struggled furiously as the two Unseen took apart the chains and hauled him out of the chair. Everyone around him was still caught in the middle of that grey stillness. Harry had never heard of a spell that actually stopped time or made everyone move more slowly, but that seemed to be what he was looking at.  
  
“You are ready,” said Jungle to the other Unseen with the triangular stone in his hand. He was holding Harry’s arm with as much ease as though Harry was still. Harry tried to punch him in the face, and Jungle didn’t bother to duck. He only held out the glowing globe as the other Unseen nodded.  
  
Harry decided that anything physical wasn’t going to work, and he didn’t have his wand. He willed, as hard as he could, for accidental magic to hit the two Unseen and the two of them to fall over.  
  
It didn’t work either, but there was a flicker in the grey stillness that surrounded them. The Unseen whose name Harry didn’t know looked up and around abruptly. Harry did, too, and saw a flash of jewel colors off to the right, a second before the dragon hit Jungle so hard that he did go flying to the floor.  
  
The greyness broke, and everyone in the courtroom started shouting at once. Harry stood up and shouted louder than any of them. “The Unseen! They were trying to take my magic, drain it into Lethe and make me a Squib!”  
  
Since he was still under the Veritaserum, the Wizengamot must have believed him faster than they would have done otherwise. One of the tall women waved her wand, and the bubbling voices shut up for a second. Then she clapped a glittering dome of a spell Harry had never seen before around Jungle and the other grey-robed figure. It went all around them on either side and straight into the floor. Harry watched and wished that someone had bothered to teach him that, or the time-stopping spell. It seemed he got left out of all the really powerful magic.  
  
Then the dragon settled on his shoulder and nuzzled his face fiercely. Harry smiled as he reached up to pet it.  _Maybe not_ all  _the really powerful magic._  
  
“We are going to find out what is going  _on_ here,” declared the Wizengamot member who’d cast the spell, and then turned and stared back and forth from Harry to Jungle. “What are the Unseen, anyway?”  
  
She’d probably been asking Jungle, but the Veritaserum forced Harry to answer since it was a question he knew. “They’re a secret organization that’s part of the Ministry who try to predict the future. They gave me an amulet that would let me lie better and fool people. And then they started telling me that me escaping having my magic drained had changed all their maps, and they were going to take it away from me and change the future back to what it should be.”  
  
The woman stared at him, and then turned to Jungle. “What are you?” she demanded. “Who are you?”  
  
Jungle didn’t try to answer. He simply folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe and gently dissolved. The other Unseen faded away right along with him. The globe and stone dropped from their hands and rolled on the floor.  
  
“That’s impossible!” someone who must have managed to cancel the Silencing Charm yelled, and then there was so much arguing that Harry honestly couldn’t understand most of what they said. He sat down with his hand on the dragon’s back. It curled up around his shoulders as though to say someone would have to tear it away before it would leave. Harry smiled into its side.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Far sooner than Harry wanted, it seemed someone was paying attention to him. He looked up and found that Kingsley was standing in front of his chair. His face was pale.  
  
“Where did Jungle go?” Kingsley asked almost plaintively. “Why would the Unseen want to sacrifice you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and then, the Veritaserum running faster than what his tongue wanted, “They did say that they needed my magic to strengthen Lethe and make the future what they wanted. That’s all I know.” The dragon nuzzled him again, and Harry returned to stroking his back.   
  
Kingsley turned away and began to talk to the Wizengamot again. From what Harry could hear, they wanted to know more about who the Unseen were, and Kingsley didn’t want to tell them everything.  
  
 _That’s the problem about resting so much of your government on secret organizations,_ Harry thought as he glanced around the courtroom.  _You don’t know how to explain their actions when they inevitably desert you._  
  
He froze as he saw someone standing near the door. The Aurors and Wizengamot members didn’t seem to have noticed him yet, but Harry certainly had. He would have known both that pale hair and that pale face anywhere.  
  
 _Get out of here,_ he tried to mouth, but Draco stubbornly ignored him and simply looked at him as if memorizing his face. Then he nodded and slipped out of the doorway. Harry slumped back against the chair and hoped that Draco would manage to outrun any Aurors who might get sent into the corridors of the Ministry to look for the Unseen.  
  
 _Why did he come here?_  
  
But a second later, Harry was sure he knew. He glanced at the dragon on his shoulders, settling down for what seemed to be a good long nap.  
  
Draco had sent the dragon in as a distraction, because it was safer than coming himself, and for all he knew, the dragon had magic that would protect him from most of what the Ministry could do. But Draco couldn’t simply sit back in the corner and wait for the dragon to save Harry, hoping it would work. He’d had to come for himself in the end and make sure it worked.  
  
Harry smiled at the empty doorway, and turned around only when he heard Kingsley walking up behind him. Kingsley’s face was grim, although he did give a slight, baffled smile at the dragon that was a little softer.  
  
“We need to talk,” Kingsley said. “This isn’t going to be easy, even if the Unseen played a part in this—this  _thing_ of yours.”  
  
“I know it won’t be easy, Minister Shacklebolt,” Harry said, relieved that Kingsley hadn’t asked a question and so he didn’t need to answer in the mindless way that Veritaserum would have made him do. “But I do think that you need to hear about the Unseen and the part they played in—all this.”  
  
Kingsley stared at him curiously, then nodded. The dragon gave a cute little snore. Harry stroked his back once more as he turned back to the face the Wizengamot.  
  
It might not be over, but at least he wasn’t going to be dragged off to Lethe right this moment and made to surrender his magic. That made things a lot more tolerable than they would have been otherwise.


	41. The Recovering Hours

Harry took a long, long drink out of the glass of water that the Wizengamot had offered him. Then he began to eat the food on the plate in front of him. They’d set up a sort of folding table in front of the chair so he didn’t have to leave it in order to have dinner.  
  
At the moment, though, Harry could have eaten food through a cat door, the way the Dursleys used to feed him. He was so  _hungry_. Veritaserum seemed to increase his appetite as well as making him speak the truth.  
  
The meat was venison, Harry thought, and he ate his way through most of a plateful before one of the Wizengamot members still staring at him asked another question. “Did you think you would be able to get away with everything you were trying?”  
  
Harry swallowed hastily before the potion could make him dump a mouthful of half-chewed food on the floor, but he still had to answer, “Yes.”  
  
That made some of the people who had been acting more sympathetic to him since hearing more of the story narrow their eyes and lean away from him. The man who’d asked the question, in a set of black robes that looked as if they’d been based on a Muggle tuxedo, just stared. “Why?”  
  
The question was broad enough to let Harry have some more discretion in answering it instead of just speaking the literal truth, so he did. “Because I wanted to ‘get away’ with returning people’s sanity to them and convincing the Ministry they’d done the wrong thing in trusting the Lightfinder. And I worked hard to make that happen.”  
  
The man tapped his fingers on his stomach. Harry took the chance to swallow some more water and a piece of bread that he’d spread with butter but hadn’t had the chance to eat yet.  
  
Then Black Robes asked abruptly, “You didn’t want to get away with convincing the Ministry that you were Light when you were really Dark?”  
  
This time, Harry managed to delay his answer because he was laughing. Then he had to swallow to get the food out of the way of the words emerging whether he wanted them to or not. “How could I? They saw I was Dark because of the Lightfinder and immediately decided I was a dangerous criminal.”  
  
“Why did they decide you were a dangerous criminal?” That was a woman Harry thought vaguely that he recognized, with a prominent nose and bright blue eyes, but he didn’t know her name. He didn’t know the names of most of the Wizengamot members, he realized. They hadn’t offered them. They just kept questioning him as if they were the only ones who had the right to ask anything.  
  
“Because I was Dark.”  
  
“It must have been for some reason other than that,” Black Robes said. “After all, there are other wizards who tested Dark in the Lightfinder and were not immediately arrested.”  
  
It wasn’t a question, which left Harry free to answer the way he wanted. “No, but some of them were sent to prison, like my friend Bill Weasley. And some of them were hunted down because they had apparently committed other crimes. May I remind you that the Ministry judged Draco Malfoy free to go after he was tried for his crimes and then immediately started hunting him down again?”  
  
“He had done other things he hadn’t been tried for,” said a witch with a wand longer than her arm.  
  
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know about that. What I  _know_ is that he was told he could go, he Apparated from outside the Ministry, and then the Aurors started hunting him again.”  
  
“Who told you that?”  
  
“Draco Malfoy.”  
  
The woman gave him a tight smile. “Well, no wonder you believe that nonsense, coming from such a biased source. You don’t want to listen to a criminal talking to you about the reasons for the accusation.”  
  
Harry gave her another, even tighter smile back. “But what are you listening to right now?”  
  
She looked uncomfortable for the barest second. Then she did shrug and say, “That’s different. You’re under Veritaserum.”  
  
“And if Draco Malfoy agreed to submit to Veritaserum? Would you believe him then?” Harry looked around at the other Wizengamot members. “I was informed that he  _had_ been put under Veritaserum during the part of his trial when he was questioned about his father’s activities. Surely you believed him then?”  
  
“Dark wizards know methods of tricking Veritaserum,” said Kingsley, where he was watching intently from the side.  
  
“Then why believe me?” Harry turned around and grinned as widely and brightly as he could. He wanted to punch someone, but his hands were down at his sides, where they couldn’t be seen that well, and he had the chains linking him to the chair as well, a reminder of what he’d endured.  
  
Kingsley paused, and some Wizengamot members twittered like birds. Harry wasn’t sure whether they were laughing at him or not. He was too busy paying attention to Kingsley instead, who coughed and said, “But you’re not Dark. You’ve made it plain how flawed the Lightfinder is. We have to rely on what people have done, not on the color of their aura in the Lightfinder.”  
  
Harry wanted to shout. So this was how the Ministry planned to reconcile their role in the latest madness with the revelations Harry had brought them. They would just say that the people they liked weren’t  _really_ Dark and pretend everyone else was.  
  
Harry didn’t know what they were going to do about the Unseen, because Kingsley and a few other people had left the courtroom for a while to “discuss it” and he hadn’t heard. But his voice was low and vicious now as he said, “What about the other people tested in it?”  
  
“We’re not going to pursue action against Bill Weasley, or his Veela mate.” Kingsley sent him a firm nod. “We realize now that we were wrong to jump to conclusions and imprison him, or her.”  
  
“And the other people who tested Dark because of it? The ones that the Ministry said deserved to be in prison or have their homes and property taken from them?”  
  
Silence. Harry pushed the remains of his food away and shifted around in the chair so that he was facing both Kingsley and as much of the Wizengamot as you could.  
  
“Don’t you see,” he told them, “if you let this happen, things are going to return to a status quo that won’t last. You’ll still condemn Dark wizards. You won’t admit any wrongdoing. You won’t admit that you did something wrong by trusting the Unseen and letting them almost sacrifice my magic.” He looked straight at Kingsley as he said that.  
  
“Of  _course_ that was wrong.” That was the Wizengamot member who had questioned Kingsley most sharply about the Unseen’s involvement. She laid a hand over her heart in a gesture Harry didn’t believe for a second. “No one should ever have trusted a secret group that hid so much of their own agenda.”  
  
“But was it wrong because it was me, or wrong in general?” Harry asked her. “If you had Draco Malfoy in front of you, would you have let the Unseen sacrifice his magic?”  
  
Silence, again. Harry shook his head slowly. He wondered if this was what Draco had foreseen. They believed Harry, but they were only willing to change their minds about a few people, the ones who they had thought were Light before the tests. They would still pursue others, like Astoria, who had done nothing wrong except refuse to be put through the Lightfinder.  
  
“Don’t you see,” Harry whispered, “that you can’t integrate people back into the wizarding world if you do this? The Unseen will come back. The prejudices will come back. There’ll be more trials that don’t need to happen, because you think Dark wizards have done something inherently wrong by being Dark wizards.”  
  
“They  _have_ ,” said a squeaky-voiced wizard who sat on the far left. “They’ve shown they have an affinity for torture spells—”   
  
“Then I have that, too?” Harry spread his hands. “I’m Dark.”  
  
More silence. Harry watched them and wondered what they had thought he would say.  
  
 _They thought you would be so grateful to be accepted back into the wizarding world that you would also accept whatever sentence they handed down. And they thought you wouldn’t bother to stand up for anyone but yourself._  
  
With a weary sigh, Harry admitted, if only to himself, that it wouldn’t matter if Draco returned to stand trial for the other crimes they’d said he committed, but somehow neglected to mention during his first trial, only “remembering” them the minute he Apparated away. They would find some way to condemn him. They had already decided, preemptively, that a Truth Trial wouldn’t be an option because “Dark wizards can trick Veritaserum.”  
  
Harry abandoned every notion, then, of encouraging Draco to come in and stand trial. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, even to prove a point of principle.  
  
“If you’re Dark,” said Squeaky Voice then, “how do we know that you’re telling the truth?”  
  
The question pulled the truth out of Harry, as he’d known it would. “I am. You can ask the Healer who brewed the Veritaserum.” He looked around, but didn’t see her. Perhaps she’d left after the fiasco with the Unseen.  
  
“But you could be tricking it now.” That was the wizard in the black robes, leaning forwards intently. “When you say that you’re sorry and want things to go back to the way they were before.”  
  
“I  _don’t_ want things to go back to the way they were before,” Harry growled at them. “I want truth to matter more than magical affiliation. Why bother to give me Veritaserum if you don’t trust the responses?”  
  
“I did trust them,” said Black Robes. “Now I’m not so sure.”  
  
Harry wanted to bury his head in his hands, to scream. There was a way to heal the madness that had made the wizarding world into a chaotic place for the past few months. There was no way to heal sheer stubbornness.  
  
“I, for, one, believe Harry,” said Kingsley, and thus did the first thing Harry felt he could approve of since he’d been tested in the Lightfinder. “And if we disbelieve the Veritaserum, what  _are_ we going to do? Decide that he’s lying every time he speaks?” He stood up and looked around the room. “Honored witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, you didn’t start deciding that he could be lying until he said things you didn’t want to hear. Why don’t you want to hear them, while you did want to hear his earlier testimony about what he had to do when he was living among the Death Eaters? Ask yourselves that. What’s the difference between one kind of news and the other?”  
  
There was a long, suspicious silence in which the Wizengamot members exchanged glances rather than look directly at Harry. Harry simply sat still and said nothing. He was almost done with saying things, he thought, unless someone asked him a question. And then he would go back to his cell and sleep.  
  
Black Robes finally said, “He’s acting as though Dark wizards never caused any trouble. And asking for special dispensation for a Dark wizard who, on his  _authority,_ he was close to. That’s a bit suspicious.” He glared at Harry.  
  
Harry glared back, and answered, “The Minister was promising me that two personal friends of mine who were caught up in all this had been released from Azkaban and wouldn’t be troubled in the future. What makes that different? Just that they’re suspected to be Light wizards despite the way they tested in the Lightfinder, and Draco’s Dark, despite the fact that he was  _never_ tested in the Lightfinder?”  
  
More rustling, like nervous chickens. Then someone asked, “Are you saying all Dark wizards are good?”  
  
“No,” Harry responded instantly, the Veritaserum almost making him trip over his own tongue. He took a deep breath, and went on. “But neither are Light wizards.”  
  
A different kind of silence this time. Harry looked back and forth slowly, making himself really absorb the expressions on their faces, instead of seeing them all as the enemy.  
  
Some of them looked more reluctant than others. Some of them were whispering behind their hands to each other. And some of them met his eyes and gave him faint, nervous smiles. They might vote against the Wizengamot if they dared.  
  
 _If they dared._  
  
Harry understood, then, as much as he would ever understand the behavior of people who were so shrinking and small. Harry could dare things that would change the world because he was still young and he hadn’t had much to lose. If he hadn’t taken risks during the war, Voldemort would have killed him. If he hadn’t taken risks in the past few months, it would have ended with his magic being sucked into Lethe anyway.  
  
But his risks might have lost him the wizarding world now. And the members of the Wizengamot couldn’t take them when they had families and political power and all sorts of things they couldn’t  _stand_ to lose.  
  
 _Well_. Harry worked his hands into his lap, folded them, and waited for the decision that would come down.  _I’ll work on not losing those things that are the most important to me, the things I really couldn’t get along without. My friends. Draco._  
  
 _And, honestly, that’s about it._  
  
His career as an Auror would never come to be now. He understood that. Kingsley might have been willing to “forgive” him—  
  
 _For my crimes that weren’t crimes, that were the only things I could have done._  
  
\--but other people never would. They would never have enough confidence in Harry to let him be an Auror unquestioned. And his days of cringing and letting other people do what they wanted, unquestioned, as long as he could seem Light and obliging, were over. They had probably been over from the first moment that Draco had come to him and challenged to think what would happen to Muggleborn children who tested Dark.  
  
He swallowed back lots of things he might have done, might have said. Those were on other paths now, the paths of someone who had never tested Dark and never gone along with playing Voldemort for the Death Eaters and never fallen in love with Draco.  
  
 _This is the way things are going to be._  
  
“I’ve told you the truth,” Harry told the Wizengamot, speaking softly now. He didn’t want to appear particularly aggressive or stubborn, even though that was the way he felt. “I only want to know what further questions you have for me, and then I want to go home.”  
  
“You think you deserve to go home instead of back to a cell?” That was a woman in purple robes who sounded only curious, not hostile.  
  
Harry blinked at her. “Yes.”  
  
There was another debate that they mostly left him out of on the merits of trusting him whether he was under Veritaserum or not. The Healer who’d brewed it came back in and testified to the potion’s effectiveness even on a Dark wizard, sounding angry. Harry let the words wash over him. No one was asking him direct questions, and at the moment, that was enough.  
  
Kingsley finally cleared his throat, and the chattering voices fell silent. Harry blinked and sat up.  
  
“Then the Wizengamot agrees,” Kingsley said, and turned to Harry. Harry found himself holding his breath, even though he had no intention of simply abiding by the decree of the Wizengamot if they meant to lock him up for the rest of his life. “Harry Potter is to be released to the custody of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. And he is to remain there until the last Death Eaters are captured.”  
  
Harry blinked. “They weren’t all captured?”  
  
Kingsley gave him a mildly exasperated glance. That was probably one of the things he should have been paying attention to during the conversation he’d ignored, Harry thought, lifting one hand in apology. “I didn’t hear,” he said.  
  
“No,” said Kingsley with obvious reluctance. “Most of them were, but Fenrir Greyback escaped, and so did Rabastan Lestrange.”  
  
Harry just nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Lots of things he  _could_ have said about Greyback wouldn’t be the kind they wanted to hear, anyway.  
  
“To be safe,” Kingsley continued, sounding this time as if he would kick someone who interrupted him, “you’ll stay there. And we’ll spend some time rooting out the Unseen and trying to make sure we know the causes and consequences of their actions.”  
  
 _They won’t give a shit,_ Harry thought, with a sigh.  _They’ll do all they can to sabotage you and drag me back into the future they think the wizarding world deserves, the one where I’m without my magic._  
  
It was another reason to leave Britain, now that he thought about it. The Unseen might never stop hunting him, and he didn’t think the Ministry could call them to heel effectively.  
  
The dragon, which had been dozing on the floor next to Harry’s feet, lifted his head and blinked sleepily. Harry reached down and smoothed his hand down his back.  
  
“And here are Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley now,” Kingsley continued, without a change of expression until the end, when he suddenly broke out in a smile and waved his hand towards the door of the courtroom.  
  
Harry turned around. There were Ron and Hermione, and a bone-deep ache sprang up in him as he saw them. Merlin, he wanted to go over and hug them and go home with them and talk and talk and talk, and then sleep until he got sores from not getting out of bed. He was so tired.  
  
He didn’t want to tell them good-bye.  
  
 _Remember that I’ll only do that if I have to,_ Harry thought, to comfort himself, as the chains on the chair finally let him go and he stood up, rubbing his wrists.  _I don’t want to leave them. I really don’t want to leave them._  
  
It would never be like it had been, and he was a different person now. But Harry didn’t want to lose what he  _could_ have with his friends, either.  
  
For now, it was enough that they hugged him, and Ron in particular clutched at him like he would never let him go, and then they walked him out of the courtroom and up the corridors, talking, talking, talking, and Harry let go of worry about the future.  
  
*  
  
Draco still felt shaken by the aftermath of his own daring in going to the Ministry when he woke up that evening. He’d fallen into a doze over the pile of books and maps of the Ministry. He’d meant to put them away, but he’d started to look through them again, in case he had to go rescue Harry tomorrow, and then the next thing he knew, he was asleep.  
  
Although not for long, because the insistently nudging head of Harry’s dragon wouldn’t  _let_ him sleep for long. Draco knuckled sleep out of his eyes, grumbling, and then held out his arm to the dragon.  
  
Soft claws prickled up his arm, and then the dragon bowed his head and let Draco see the letter he clutched in his teeth. Draco wrestled with it for an unsuccessful minute before the dragon seemed to get bored, opened his mouth, dropped the letter, and swooped over to the corner of the room where Draco kept water for him, which he drank long and thirstily.  
  
Draco turned the letter over, stared at the writing, and started to shake. It was a full ninety seconds, he thought, before he could get his hands under control long enough to open the letter.   
  
It was Harry’s writing. They wouldn’t have let him have ink and parchment if he was going to Azkaban. Draco thought.  
  
He refused to think that they might if they were granting a prisoner’s last request, and read it eagerly.  
  
 _Dear Draco,_  
  
 _The Wizengamot did decide not to put me in Azkaban. I’m in Ron and Hermione’s custody for the moment, though. Officially it’s because they’re worried about Greyback and Rabastan Lestrange escaping, and I need protection. But I think they might want to keep an eye on me because they’re still worried I’m going to turn Dark._  
  
“Which only shows how many fools there are in the Ministry,” Draco told the dragon, who moved his tail a little, as if to say that it was all very interesting, but Draco would have to excuse him while he finished this water.  
  
 _I don’t think they really knew what to make of me. They said I would go free and Bill and Fleur would go free, but then they started balking. Some of them thought I was managing to trick the Veritaserum because I’m a Dark wizard and apparently Dark wizards can do that._  
  
“That would have been a handy trick to have during my trial,” Draco said, and stretched back in his chair. “I shall have to scold Mother and Father for not teaching me.”  
  
 _And they especially balked at you. I don’t think they would trust you even if you gave yourself up to a Truth Trial. I’m sorry, Draco. They acknowledge they were wrong about the Lightfinder, but they don’t want to change anything else, especially not the convenient belief that everyone who tests Light is good and everyone who tests Dark is evil. I think they might try to come up with another way to separate Light and Dark wizards, even though they wouldn’t dare use the Lightfinder again._  
  
Draco sighed slowly. It was a revelation he had had a long time ago. He wished he could have been with Harry when Harry had it.  
  
 _And I don’t…_ There was a long scratch, as though Harry had tried to think of what to say and had waited so long that he’d finally had to dip his quill in more ink.  _I don’t think I want to live in a world like the one they’re proposing, Draco. But I don’t want to leave my friends and my home, either, if I can avoid it. So for now I’ll wait and see what will happen._  
  
 _But if it turns out that they decide they can’t trust me and they’re going to lock me up again, then I’ll ask you to be ready, Draco. The dragon can bring me your answer and get me out of here if anything comes up. I’ll come to you._  
  
Draco reached out and gently laid his hand on those last words. Even more than the signature, the sign of Harry’s name, they were the most precious ones to him.  
  
He had at least until the morning to decide what to say, he thought. The dragon had curled up in a way that made it very clear there would be no more flying tonight. And Draco didn’t want to sound like he was urging Harry to abandon his friends. Draco  _didn’t_ want that. He might never like Weasley and Granger, but Harry needed them and wanted them by his side.  
  
Not at the cost of freedom, though. Especially when Harry had made up for the worst thing he’d done, or been involved in, and done nothing else wrong, except try to save a lot of stubborn arses who would never understand a tenth of what he’d struggled through or endure it themselves.  
  
Draco ended up falling asleep in the library again, but this time, his sleep was unbroken and his head pillowed on paper he liked much better than the maps and books he’d been reading. And he was smiling.


	42. The Plotting Hours

“Did you ever feel,” Hermione asked, leaning forwards with eyes so big that Harry knew without asking that the question had troubled  _her_ , “like you were losing yourself in the playacting? Like it was Voldemort and not you who was going to come back?”  
  
“Of course I did.” Harry whispered the words, but Ron shook his head, and Harry took a swallow of water and then repeated them. “Of course I did. But I couldn’t let that stop me. If I stopped once because I was scared, then I knew I’d probably never have the strength to take up the acting again.”  
  
“I’m just trying to understand, mate,” Ron said. “But why did you decide to rely on Parkinson and Greengrass and—and  _Malfoy_ more than you relied on us?”  
  
“Because I was playing Lord Voldemort and it would have seemed strange to communicate with Light wizards all the time?” Harry offered lightly, a little exasperated. “You’re right that I could have sent more Patronus messages, though. I was just so afraid that someone would see them leaving the house—and I doubt Voldemort ever managed to cast a Patronus, since I doubt he was ever happy. I’m sorry.”  
  
Ron glanced away from him, his cheeks flushing. Hermione patted his hand and then turned and looked at Harry again.  
  
“I think what Ron means,” she said gently, “is that you didn’t rely on us to help you with the research for the reverse Lightfinder or anything like that. You sent Death Eaters on those missions, or looking in libraries for the information. We could have done  _something_.”  
  
Harry only shook his head back. “How, though? I couldn’t receive any owls with letters or packages, and you know that a Patronus can only carry a short message. I had to rely on people who were there with me and who could do the research because I’d ordered them to. Or pretended to order them to.”  
  
“We wanted to  _do_ something,” Ron said, between gritted teeth. He still had his head turned away, and his hands, clenched on the back of Hermione’s chair, were so white that Harry wanted to reach out and pry his fingers loose. “We wanted to  _make sure_ that you wouldn’t lose yourself to the horror of playing Voldemort. Instead, you just relied on Death Eaters and people you didn’t know as well, and we had to wait around to even hear that you were still  _you_.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. Suddenly, he understood a lot better. This wasn’t Ron and Hermione being afraid that playing a role would change him. This was them wanting to help and stewing in their helplessness until they went mental.  
  
He held out his hands. Hermione seemed to understand faster, but Harry heard Ron coming around her chair, and his hand hit Harry’s only a second after Hermione had grasped his other one. Harry sat there holding both his friends’ hands and drawing strength from them, trying to imagine what would have happened if he’d reached out to them when he was trying so hard to create the reverse Lightfinder.  
  
If he’d found a  _way_ to reach out to them. Some way he could have trusted and which wouldn’t have added to the list of continual worries.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I trusted those people I had to trust, and no more. I tortured one of the Lestrange brothers because I had to make him respect me, and I tortured Draco when his father cast a spell on him that meant he couldn’t tell me something willingly. I wanted to trust you, but it was—hard to think of a way.”  
  
“You thought we would reject you when you came out of that playacting?” Hermione whispered.  
  
Harry gave her an exhausted look. “I thought you would agree with the wizarding world that I’d done something just by  _pretending_ to be Voldemort. And I’m so sick of lying, and pretending, and being judged for it, and knowing what would happen if I didn’t do it.” He sucked in a breath and said what had to be said. “And being judged for who I love.”  
  
Hermione stood up and hugged him, but said nothing. Ron stood where he was and cleared his throat several times. Then he shook his head and muttered, “There’s no good way to say it. I  _don’t_ trust Malfoy. I don’t see how you can go on dating him, Harry.”  
  
“Because I want to,” Harry said. “And I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m asking you not to make disparaging comments about him and ask me if I’m sure and try to push me towards other people to date.”  
  
Ron looked as if he’d swallowed a very large fly. “That’s going to be difficult,” he said. “Because I  _don’t_ think you should be with him.”  
  
Harry sighed. “I love him. What I went through during our time among the Death Eaters bonded me with him. He was almost the only person I could trust.” He thought a little, and then added, “Parkinson always suspected I was treating Draco worse than I was, and Astoria was so shy and retiring that I didn’t want to push her much when it came to helping me other than doing research. And I didn’t know which way Draco’s mother was going to jump. So he was almost the only one.”  
  
“The only one  _there_ ,” said Hermione, and once again gave him a disapproving look. “You could have trusted other people if you had deigned to bring us into the game.”  
  
“ _It wasn’t a game._ ”  
  
Harry said that with enough force that Hermione rocked backwards a little. Then she blinked and put out a hand and clutched his again. Harry held on tight enough that she winced, but he was making his point, and he didn’t want to soften while he was doing that.  
  
“It was never a game,” he said. “It  _couldn’t_ be, not when it was costing me and other people so much. I didn’t—if I could have found some way to bring you in, then I would have. But in the meantime, I was thinking and working and sweating all the time, and there was no way that I could think of to reach you. And then I was involved in fooling the Death Eaters and trying to build the reverse Lightfinder and keep my relationship with Draco a secret and—”  
  
He closed his eyes, tightly. Ron took his other hand again. Harry glanced at him, but he didn’t look inclined to speak.  
  
“In the end,” Harry whispered, “what I feared most came to pass. I mean, other than being found out and killed by the Death Eaters. It turns out the Wizengamot  _still_  won’t change their minds. They’ll make exceptions for me and Bill and Fleur, but that’s it. They won’t promise to make exceptions for the other people who tested Dark in the Lightfinder. I don’t know what they’re going to do about the Unseen. Who—who  _knows_. There’s just too much that’s going on, and a few Death Eaters escaped and might be hunting me down, and the Unseen will probably do it as soon as they manage to persuade the Ministry not to pay attention to them. They’re ancient and they can apparently see some of the future. Who  _knows_?”  
  
Ron leaned over and hugged him. Harry leaned into his friend and said nothing. Ron whispered, “You know we’ll stand by your side, mate. No matter what. Of course we will. You’ll always have our support.”  
  
“Yes, you will,” Hermione echoed firmly. “And I still wish that we could have worked with you to build the reverse Lightfinder, but I see—why it wasn’t the first thing on your mind.” She paused, and Harry heard nothing except her light breathing for a second.  
  
“You have to make a plan for the future,” she said then. “What are you going to do  _right now_ about the Death Eaters and the Unseen? Don’t think of the future and whether you’ll be able to manage it. What is it going to be  _right now_?”  
  
Harry snorted. “Isn’t thinking about what I’m going to do about them thinking of the future?” he asked, opening one eye to consider her.  
  
“It’s not as overwhelming as thinking about all of the future at once,” Hermione said firmly.  
  
That much was true. Harry sighed and sat back with a shake of his head. “I don’t  _know_. The Unseen can supposedly get through any defense I have, or that anyone can conjure. They can do things like freeze time for everyone else in the Wizengamot courtroom. How am I supposed to stop that?”  
  
Hermione smiled triumphantly. “There’s a spell that can. It judges intent. I wove it around the house when we asked Kingsley if you could come to stay with us, and it won’t let anyone through who plans on harming anyone who lives here. It’s like a more powerful version of the protection you had on the Dursleys’ house.”  
  
Harry let his opinion of that protection go by without comment. Hermione knew what his life with the Dursleys had been like, and if she thought this was worth trying anyway, then it was. “All right. We’ll use that for right now. And it should keep out the Death Eaters as well as the Unseen, right?”  
  
“Of course it should,” said Ron, with a snort and a shake of his head. “The only two still free are Greyback and Lestrange, and of course they would want to harm you.” He gave Harry a quick look. “And the Malfoys, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Harry echoed back dryly, and went to write Draco a letter, and think.  
  
This was a good short-term plan. In the meantime, he could see what the Ministry did about the Unseen, if anything. Kingsley was the one with the most knowledge of them. How he would act now meant a lot.  
  
And Harry would spend as much time as he could with his friends, and talk with them, and ease them into the realization he had already come to.  
  
He might or might not be able to continue in the country when Greyback, Lestrange, and the Unseen were finally dealt with, but Draco wouldn’t. And Harry had made a promise.  
  
One that he passionately and desperately wanted, despite the knowledge of all he would leave behind and how much it would hurt, to keep.  
  
*  
  
Draco Apparated into the small meadow that Harry had appointed as the meeting place, and looked around carefully. He didn’t think Weasley and Granger would actually set up an ambush for him. For one thing, it would hurt Harry. For another—  
  
Well, maybe there wasn’t another reason, when Draco thought about it. He had to trust to the strength of their affection for Harry. He had no trust at all in their political convictions, or their connection to the Ministry. He planted his hands in his pockets, and settled down to wait.  
  
The crack of Apparition to the side brought him spinning around, but there was only one, and that and the dragon’s glad cry from his shoulder told him who it was.   
  
Well, and Draco  _felt_ it was right. He followed the dragon a second later, bursting past the complicated tangle the beast had made around Harry’s face and upper arms. He was sure his lips would find Harry’s in a kiss.  
  
They did.  
  
Harry’s hand was in his hair, assured, guiding, familiar. Draco kissed him hard enough to make them fall over, and the dragon took off from in between them with an indignant squeal. Draco broke the kiss only long enough to laugh, and then he returned it with interest, while Harry went on stroking his hair and the nape of his neck and making inarticulate murmurs that Draco didn’t need to understand. The love in them was plain enough to hear.   
  
It ended with Harry sprawled on the grass and smiling at Draco above him, and Draco stroking his face and hair. Harry closed his eyes and this time, there could be no doubt that his sounds were simple happiness. Draco ignored the temptation to finish rolling Harry over and show him  _exactly_ what this moment meant to Draco. This meadow looked isolated by rolling walls of trees, but Draco didn’t actually know where they were or who might be nearby.  
  
“Where is this place?” he asked, when he’d pulled his hand back and Harry had sat up with a mixture of a grumble and a sigh.  
  
“One of the places in the Forest of Dean that Hermione and I stayed when we were hunting for the Horcruxes,” Harry replied, looking around at the trees. “I remember them a lot better than I want to.” His grimace vanished as his gaze came back to Draco. “But maybe I’ll think of this one more fondly now.” He reached out and toyed with a strand of Draco’s hair.  
  
Draco tilted his head and enjoyed it for a moment, then resolutely focused on what they needed to be doing. “You called me here for more than a chance to see me.”  
  
“Yes, although that was the most important reason.” Harry found his hand and held it tightly. “The Unseen and those two escaped Death Eaters make me nervous.”  
  
“They make me more than nervous,” Draco said quietly. “Especially since Greyback will probably never forgive you for this.”  
  
Harry nodded. “And since the Ministry’s hunting him, he might decide the best way he can strike back is my death. Well.” He paused for a second, and then said, “Ron and Hermione want me to stay with them.”  
  
Draco shuffled back on his knees, found he was at the limit of Harry’s arm and Harry was gazing at him steadily, and then said, “I thought you were already staying with them.”  
  
“Draco. You know what I mean.” Harry wrapped his arms around him.  
  
Draco shut his eyes and told himself that he should have known what it meant, that his happiness never  _did_ last, and that of course Harry would always choose his friends over Draco. But he thought his voice was remarkably calm and flat, given how true all his thoughts were. “So you won’t come with me when we leave.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“My parents too, of course.” Draco opened his eyes and gazed over Harry’s shoulder towards the trees. The dragon was perched on a branch, lipping at the leaves and looking as if he wanted to try being a vegetarian for a day. “But it can’t include you if you’re determined to stay behind.”  
  
Harry’s arms abruptly crushed around him, and Harry whispered, “If you  _knew_ what you meant to me, you’d never say that.”  
  
Draco blinked, then got angry. “You sounded as though you’d already made the decision to honor your friends’ wishes above your promises,” he snapped, and wriggled backwards again. “Excuse me for thinking that your Gryffindor loyalty was going to prevail after all.”  
  
Harry lowered his eyes and sat there for a second with his hand in Draco’s. A bird called somewhere, and the dragon spread his wings and flew off into the forest after it. Apparently leaves didn’t satisfy him, Draco thought.  
  
“Ron and Hermione never doubted me as much as I thought,” Harry whispered. “They were mostly angry because I hadn’t let them help.”  
  
Draco held back savage replies about how much Harry had already been wearing away playing his role and hadn’t had time to coddle spoiled Gryffindors who wanted to “do it themselves” like first-years, and simply nodded.  
  
“That makes it harder to leave,” Harry said. “If I was fighting with them, I’d hate it and regret it, but it would also make it easier to decide on not seeing them often for the next several years. At the very  _least_.”  
  
His hand tightened again in Draco’s, and he locked eyes with him. “At the same time, I know I don’t want to be parted from you.”  
  
Draco nodded. That had been what he wanted to hear. Harry could have all the friends and all the wishy-washiness he liked, as long as he chose Draco in the end.  
  
“That does leave me wondering how exactly I should solve this,” Harry said, with a long sigh. “The spells that Hermione has on the house will protect me from Death Eaters for now. The Unseen might still find some way around them.”  
  
Draco started a little. “I did find out one thing,” he said, and looked around for the dragon. A few seconds later, the creature came into sight, chasing a bird around a tree. Draco rolled his eyes. “Will you call him back?”  
  
Harry grinned. “He’s spent the last few days with you, and he abandoned our reunion awfully quickly. Why don’t  _you_ call him back?”  
  
“Hey, Nameless Thing!” Draco called.  
  
The dragon flicked his tail and continued chasing the bird. Harry cleared his throat. “He might obey you better if you invented something to call him.”  
  
“You should do it,” Draco said, and folded his arms, feeling mutinous and utterly happy at the same time, that they were able to sit here and argue about something so ridiculous. “If  _you_ created him, you should be the one who comes up with a name.”  
  
Harry turned and considered the dragon. It had landed on a branch with the bird clasped in one claw. After studying it for a moment, however, the dragon seemed to conclude that he preferred his meals already cooked. He opened his claw, let the bird fly free, and then polished his muzzle and tail vigorously against the branch.  
  
“I don’t feel like naming him after someone already dead,” Harry muttered. “Although I did consider naming my future children after my parents, or possibly Professor Snape.”  
  
Draco stared at him. “Why in the world would you name one of them after  _Professor Snape?_ ”  
  
“Why, wouldn’t you want to?”  
  
Draco shook his head. Somewhere they had taken a turn from the ridiculous to the bizarre, and he didn’t understand it. “I had a different relationship with Professor Snape than you did.”  
  
“You had one, to begin with,” Harry said, and then softened his words with a smile. “But I thought he was the bravest man I’ve ever known.”  
  
He looked thoughtfully at the dragon again, while Draco held his tongue about how the bravest man  _he’d_ ever known was sitting in front of him. Harry was thinking hard enough about what to name the dragon without Draco interfering. If Draco  _did_ say something, they would probably end up sitting here for the duration of the afternoon.  
  
“I want to name him something serious,” Harry whispered. “He did save my life with the Unseen, and he helped with the plan to unleash the reverse Lightfinder.”  
  
 _And he might breathe fire at you if you came up with a silly name,_ Draco thought, but he nodded. Small or not, the dragon was still a dragon.  
  
“He saved me,” said Harry, and cocked his head. “I wonder if I could call him Salvation?”  
  
It took Draco a moment to realize that Harry wasn’t asking the question of him, but of the dragon. The dragon turned to look at Harry and slowly opened his mouth. Draco tensed, but what came out wasn’t fire. It was the dragon’s curling tongue, accompanied by a great deal of saliva.   
  
“All right, then,” said Harry, but he was smiling in a way that made Draco think he should have seen Harry’s next suggestion coming. “What about something short that still acknowledges the role you played? What about Sal?”  
  
The dragon rolled his tongue back inside his mouth and considered Harry for a moment with his head cocked to the side and his tail swishing slowly back and forth.  
  
“That way,” Harry continued in a grave manner, “no one will have to know it’s short for Salvation. They’ll probably assume it’s short for Salazar Slytherin. And no one can say that’s not a serious name.”  
  
The dragon took off from the branch, flying hard and true. Draco nearly jumped up to retrieve Harry and pull him out of the way, but although the dragon hit Harry hard enough to knock him over, it wasn’t a vicious hit. He was licking Harry’s face with a hot tongue a few seconds later and wagging his tail hard enough to make Draco snort.  
  
“Sal it is, then,” Harry muttered, his hand on Sal’s head, and smiled at Draco. “You were saying?”  
  
It took Draco a moment of scrambling to recover his original idea, but then he had it. “We already know—Sal can resist the Unseen’s magic,” he said. “Why not send him into the Ministry to find out what they’re doing? He might not be able to bring back a written report,” he added hastily, seeing Harry already opening his mouth, “but he makes his intent understood pretty well. And you might be able to put his memories in a Pensieve.”  
  
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “I’d do it if I didn’t think Sal would be in danger.”  
  
Sal tapped his tail pointedly against Harry’s temple, then twisted his neck around and spat flames at the same moment as he reared, flapped his wings hard enough to rise a bit off Harry’s shoulder, and clawed the air. Then he sat back down and stared expectantly at Harry, while Draco did his best not to laugh.  
  
“He’s a dragon who can breathe fire and fly and resist even magic that stops time for the Wizengamot,” said Draco. “I really don’t think he’s going to be in any danger.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. “All right. Then you can go, Sal.” He knuckled the dragon roughly on the head, and Sal crooned and curled up on his shoulder. Draco smiled. He had the feeling that he knew who the dragon would go home with.  
  
Harry caught his hand before they left and said softly, holding his eyes, “I’m going to give it a fortnight to find out if I can do anything about the Unseen or if the Ministry can capture the Death Eaters. Whether they can or not, then I’m going to leave with you.”  
  
“If  _we_ can do anything about the Unseen,” Draco corrected him, and enjoyed both Harry’s smile and the feeling of something going right for him for once.  
  
*  
  
Harry lay quietly in bed, looking out the window. Hermione had exclaimed over Sal and asked Harry dozens of questions about how he’d created him, while Ron seemed mainly impressed with how much Sal could eat. Harry had answered the questions and permitted the feeding, since he wanted Sal to have plenty of energy for his expedition into the Ministry that night.  
  
He knew he shouldn’t be so worried. This was a test run only, and Sal would probably come back perfectly fine. But he also knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he lay there.  
  
Then something moved beneath his window—something too large for Sal.  
  
Harry had his wand in his hand instantly. He breathed softly, wondering if Hermione hadn’t studied the spell she’d cast correctly, or if someone had come up with a way to bypass it. Come to think of it, he’d never asked her if someone could carry goodwill towards him in their heart until they got close to the house and then change their minds, or if someone under the Imperius Curse to hurt him would trip the spell.  
  
Then Fenrir Greyback stood up and stared into the window at him.  
  
 _The spell’s gone,_ Harry thought, as he sprang to his feet and aimed his wand.  _That, or the Unseen undid it, or Lestrange knows a counter for it—_  
  
Greyback gave a delighted whine and bowed his head on the windowsill, fawning. “My Lord, my  _Lord_ ,” he whispered. “I knew part of you had to be left. I know the Ministry has strengthened the Harry Potter part of your personality so that it overwhelmed your true one, but you know me, don’t you? There’s a little bit of you left, or you would have cursed me immediately!” And Greyback cocked his head to the side in a motion that someone had probably once told him was appealing.  
  
Harry stared at Greyback with his mouth open. The papers were spreading the story that he was still really Voldemort, he knew, which at least a few people stubbornly persisted in believing. He had never thought that their lies would do him a service.  
  
 _And it’s no wonder Greyback can get past the spell,_ Harry thought as he sat down hard on the bed.  _He_ doesn’t  _mean me harm._  
  
Harry cleared his throat hoarsely. “Part of me is still me,” he whispered. “Yes, Fenrir, I know you, my loyal dog.”  
  
Greyback nodded and gripped the windowsill. Harry’s room was on the ground floor, but Greyback still clung as if he’d had to climb a high wall. “Tell me what to do, my Lord,” he whispered. “Tell me what to  _do_.”  
  
Harry lifted his head. Could he play Voldemort one more time, for the sake of a better future than he’d have otherwise?  
  
 _Yes. Of course I can._  
  
“I must know what became of Lestrange,” Harry urged Greyback harshly. “What do you know?”  
  
“I killed him. Because he betrayed you and would have tried to convince me that you are not my Lord and are only Harry Potter.” Greyback clapped his teeth together with a look of satisfaction. “His blood was delicious in my mouth, my Lord.”  
  
 _He means he tore out Lestrange’s throat,_ Harry translated to himself. He was shaking, a little, but he was also determined to do things in a way that made his heart thrum. _That removes one complication. I can do this._  
  
“The pressure they have brought to bear on me is very strong,” Harry breathed harshly. “Soon the part of me will fade and be gone.”  
  
“Then I will kill them, my Lord.” Greyback’s nails tightened on the wood of the windowsill, and his eyes flashed crazily. “All of them!” He started to climb into the room.  
  
“No!”  
  
Harry still had the Voldemort commanding voice down pat, he was glad to see. Greyback dropped back, cowering and whining, and murmuring protests of eternal loyalty, which Harry cut easily across. “There is an organization called the Unseen, within the Ministry. They are the only ones who had the magic necessary to enslave me and crush me. There is no stopping the fading now. I will die, and only Harry Potter will be left.” Harry leaned forwards. “But before I die, I wish you to do one last thing for me.”  
  
Greyback rose slowly, his eyes fixed on Harry and his body vibrating slightly. “Yes,” he breathed. “Let me do this last thing for you, my Lord. Please.”  
  
Harry nodded, once. “The Unseen have a series of hidden places within the Ministry, offices where they keep their maps of the future.” Greyback didn’t even ask questions, he saw, so focused was he on what Harry was saying. “I’ve sent my dragon as a scout tonight who should be able to find out the way. I want you to go there and destroy the maps and other implements they have. Destroy their magic. Break their wands.”  
  
He leaned forwards and fixed his eyes on Greyback. “But I don’t want you to harm anyone.  _Do you understand me?_ They are to be left alive to mourn the loss of their magic, and to hear my laughter over their screams of loss.”  
  
A long stream of drool slid from Greyback’s jaws and landed on the sill. He nodded so fast that Harry’s sight of him blurred.   
  
“Yes, my Lord,” he whispered. “Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said, and held out his hand. Greyback padded into the room, moving on all fours, and sniffed at his hand. “You are not to kill anyone along the way, either,” he added, as an afterthought. “Or infect them with lycanthropy. They are to bear witness to the final and catastrophic loss of my enemies.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Greyback whispered.  
  
Harry took a single breath, because that would be enough for what he had to say. “You know that you will likely die in the assault?”  
  
Greyback looked up. The moonlight caught his eyes and shone off them.  
  
“My  _Lord_ ,” he whispered, and abased himself on the floor. “It will be my  _honor_.”  
  
Harry sat there looking at him, and wondered when reality had passed into acting, when this had become real for Greyback, and might be real for Harry, too. He slowly held out his hand.  
  
Greyback extended his tongue and licked gently at Harry’s palm, for the first and last time. Then he bowed, said, “Send me your dragon when you are ready, my Lord. I’ve always been good at communicating with animals,” and leaped through the window. Harry heard the light pattering of his footfalls as he ran away.  
  
Harry sat there with thoughts tumbling through his head, and only moved when Sal came back. Sal settled on his shoulder and licked his cheek once.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry whispered, and set about the task of extracting the memories Sal held so he could look at them.


	43. The Singing Hours

The hardest thing was to tell his parents that he would be leaving with Harry.  
  
Draco chose to do it during one of their largely silent dinners around the main table in the dining room. His father ate with his head bowed, and his mother with her gaze flickering back and forth between them, like a bird looking for insects it could pick up. At least when Draco cleared his throat, they both looked at him.  
  
Draco resisted the urge to duck his head, and simply said, “I’ll be leaving with Harry to go abroad tomorrow.”  
  
Father put down his fork hard on the edge of the plate. Draco didn’t think that someone unfamiliar with his mother would have seen the way she tensed and reared back, but, of course,  _he_ was familiar with her, and he saw it. He had seen her look that way when the Dark Lord gave her an order.  
  
The only thing his mother said, however, was, “I see. And you didn’t think it worthwhile to stay and help your father regain a position in wizarding society? To help me think of a way that he can avoid going back to prison?”  
  
Draco gripped the edge of his table and said, “I think I’ve done more—I’ve done things he should be  _grateful_ for—by managing to get him out of the bargain that would have consumed him.”  
  
By the way he blinked, that way of thinking didn’t seem to have occurred to his father. It only made his mother attack the harder, however. “You haven’t answered my questions.”  
  
“He was the one who chose to break out of Azkaban,” Draco said bluntly, meeting her eyes again. “He might not have been in his right mind towards the end of the bargain, when that—elemental force was consuming him, but he was thinking straight when he made it. His problems are self-inflicted.”  
  
He swallowed back the other protests he would have made, the ones that were meant to make his parents think better of him, and added, “And you—weren’t there, Mother. I suppose I can’t blame you much for that, since you did come to me when I called you. But I don’t know how much of that was for—Father and the family, and how much was for me.”  
  
Draco was writhing inside as he said that, and he watched his mother’s face change as she whispered, “Never doubt that I love you, Draco.”  
  
“I don’t doubt you love me.” Draco closed his eyes. “I just don’t think we want the same things anymore.”  
  
“What do you want?” His mother had the sound of someone prepared to argue all about the benefits of a family name and a good reputation, but she stopped breathing when Draco said the single word he’d thought about.  
  
“Peace.”  
  
The silence seemed to echo with the sound of that word, like a dropped coin. Then Father cleared his throat.   
  
Draco glanced at him and lifted his eyebrows. Lucius keeping silent hadn’t gone unnoticed, of course. Draco had simply thought it was shame, or maturity, or not having a single thing to add to the conversation the way it was going.  
  
But Lucius murmured, with eyes steady on both Draco’s and his mother’s faces, “Maybe this is the way it was meant to be. Draco did his part, and he’s already had to live with the legacy of a war that was chosen for him before he was born. Maybe this is what he needs, Cissy.”  
  
His mother folded her arms tight enough to make her shoulders look distorted and turned an equally unhappy gaze on Draco. Draco shrugged a little and answered her silent stare. “I think he’s right. If I thought I should stay with you instead, that’s what I’d be doing.”  
  
“Is this about Potter not wanting to stay?” Narcissa asked him quietly. “Or you?”  
  
“Both of us?” Draco shook his head, not knowing what she wanted him to say, what would convince her. “It’s true, Mother,” he added, when he saw his mother’s mouth tightening like her shoulders. “They’ll always pursue me, probably, and they might only decide I didn’t have to go to Azkaban as a favor to Harry, anyway, which he would hate. And they’ll never stop bothering Harry about being a Dark wizard, or wanting him to forgive them.” He grimaced. Harry had written him a letter that morning that talked about that starting to happen already. “We both want to leave.”  
  
“And if we need you?”  
  
“Then you can send me an owl.” Draco looked at her and went on looking until his mother half-turned her head away. “With Apparition, no place on Earth should be  _that_ unreachable. We can come back if you need us.”  
  
His mother lowered her head. Draco waited her out. He could understand her reluctance, even her anger, but he had already made his decision. Since he  _did_ want peace, though, he would prefer to leave after both his parents had already acknowledged that they understood why he was leaving.  
  
Finally, his mother muttered, “I—had not thought that you would choose your lover over your family. But I suppose I understand.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Father chose freedom over remaining in Azkaban and serving out his sentence. You’re choosing to go into hiding with him instead of turning him in, which might improve  _your_ standing with the Ministry, at least. We all make our choices, and all for what we think are good reasons. I’m just informing you of mine, which is more than what tended to happen with yours.” He stared pointedly at his father.  
  
Lucius cleared his throat. Draco watched him, not sure what he was going to say. There were so many different ways this could have gone, and he didn’t think his father would choose the best one.  
  
But he did. He surprised Draco by coming around the table and hugging him tight. Draco blinked, then rose and accepted that hug that was so much like the hugs he had had when he was young. Lucius’s arms closed in as if he didn’t intend to let Draco go, either.  
  
“Thank you for forgiving me,” Lucius whispered. “You didn’t have to, and you did it anyway. Thank you.” He stepped back and glanced between Draco’s mother and him as if he was trying to make sure they both understood the impact of his words. “And you’re right. You saved my life, when I should have lost it to the—bargain. You’ve more than earned your right to go away and do whatever you want.”  
  
Draco smiled at him. “Thank you, Father.” He glanced at his mother. “Then we have your blessing?”  
  
“If you want it.” His mother drew in a painful breath, and abruptly uncrossed her arms and held them out. “I’m going to  _miss_ you.”  
  
Draco went to hug her, relaxing as he did so. He should have remembered. This was his mother, who had lied to the Dark Lord for him, who had made Professor Snape swear an Unbreakable Vow for him, who had done everything she could to protect him; she’d even been willing to leave with Draco when she’d thought her husband was unrecoverable. It was—  
  
It wasn’t that strange that she would be upset, after all, to see him leave the country.  
  
“I’ll owl you on a regular basis,” said Draco, and drew back to smile at her. “And we’re going to spend at least part of the time with Pansy and Astoria. I want to make sure they’re safely settled before we leave them.”  
  
“You’re a loyal friend,” his mother said. “A loyal lover, I suspect, although I didn’t have the chance to study your relationship with Potter closely.” She hesitated. Draco waited.  
  
It came.  
  
“And a loyal son.”  
  
*  
  
Harry leaned back as another owl tried to hand him a letter. In the end, the barrier that Hermione had studied how to raise flashed before him, like a silhouette of a hill outlined in red, and the owl had to circle away, hooting, and deposit the letter on the huge pile of parchment growing in a corner of Ron and Hermione’s dining room.  
  
“How many more can they  _send_?” Ron asked with a moan. Pieces of paper lay in his cornflakes. He picked them out and went on grimly eating.  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and shrugged, rolling his shoulders that felt as stiff as the joints of the chair he was sitting in. “As many requests as they can think of that the Boy-Who-Lived should be able to solve, I suppose.”  
  
“There are some requests in here that make a lot of sense.” Hermione had picked up a letter that might have come from anywhere in the pile, to Harry’s knowledge, and was reading it. “This is a woman whose daughter died, and since then, she hasn’t been able to decide what she should do with her money, because her daughter was the only one she wanted to leave it to. She’s asking you what she should donate it to—”  
  
“You can advise her, if you want,” Harry interrupted her. “ _I’m_ not going to.”  
  
Hermione gave him a disappointed look and tossed the letter back on the pile. “I do think that you could solve some problems,” she whispered. “I mean, not all of them. I would never ask that of you. Just the worthy ones.”  
  
Harry snorted. “And then the people I didn’t pick would start screaming that they were just as worthy, and where would  _that_ end? No.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, eyes on another owl that was almost to the window. This one seemed to be carrying something a little bigger than a letter. He wondered wearily if it was another gift. “Like I said, some of it sounds interesting for you. Why don’t you do it?”  
  
“I’m not the one they want helping them,” Hermione said, but she was starting to look more and more interested in the idea the more they talked. She was turning around the letter that she’d showed Harry again, and then she waved her wand and started a duplicate of it on a separate piece of parchment.  
  
The next owl had landed on the windowsill. Harry nodded absently to her and reached out to take the thing it held. He just hoped it wasn’t more priceless heirlooms. Returning those to their original owners took a lot longer than ignoring a letter. “And I’m not  _going_ to help them. It might as well be you.”  
  
The larger thing the owl was carrying turned out to be the paper, and on the front page…  
  
“Mate!” Ron surged to his feet as Harry burst out laughing, holding his sides. “What did they send to poison you  _this_ time?”  
  
Harry tried his best to calm down and wipe tears off his face. He supposed Ron had a right to be alarmed. Before Hermione had set up the protective spells to wall the letters off, one had slipped through with poison on it, and Harry had probably jerked and jolted in his chair in much the same way.   
  
“No poison,” he said. “Just the headline.” He took a moment more to savor it, then turned and handed the paper to Ron.  
  
Ron stared at it, then shook his head. “‘The Unseen Destroyed?’” he whispered. “But if they’re so hidden and secret, how would the  _Prophet_ know in the first place?”  
  
“Because I assume they finally had enough chaos and destruction that they couldn’t hide it from the reporters.” Harry couldn’t stop grinning. For once, the persistence of people who thought the whole wizarding world needed to know about things the  _instant_ they happened had worked for instead of against him. “And there might be some indication in the story about who’s responsible for it, anyway.”  
  
Ron began reading the paper, holding it taut. Hermione got up and came around to read over his shoulder. Harry closed his eyes and lay back in his chair, shaking his head and laughing softly.  
  
He knew who was responsible. He’d want to read the details, he thought, sooner or later, but it was clear that Greyback had achieved much more of a triumph even than Harry had thought he would.  
  
And that meant he was free of one of the most pressing threats. Harry looked thoughtfully at the huge pile of letters and gifts on the other side of the room, and then out the window at the wings of owls who were carrying in still more and more.  
  
If he was free of the Unseen, then he could take actions to rid himself of the other threats. It all depended on his will.  
  
“ _Greyback_?” Hermione’s shout made Harry glad that he hadn’t been holding anything. She swung around and stared at him, shaking her head. “But how? He has to hate you after he found out what you were doing!”  
  
Harry held her gaze. Now, on the threshold of what might be leaving his friends for a long time, he didn’t want there to be any lies between them. “Only if he found out,” he said calmly. “Not if he thought there was still a piece of Voldemort alive in me and he was acting in Voldemort’s long-term interests even if he died.”  
  
Hermione stared at him. She would have said something, Harry was certain, but Ron started reading aloud from the paper, shaking his head as he did.  
  
“‘It took much less force than expected to bring down Fenrir Greyback, one of Britain’s most notorious werewolves, outside the hidden room that was exposed today as the center of the Unseen’s operations. One Killing Curse was sufficient, and although Greyback dodged, he didn’t bite even Auror Rigorson, who fell right in front of him.’” Ron put down the paper and stared at Harry in turn. “ _You_ told him to do that?”  
  
Harry nodded. “He came here last night, and I managed to convince him that I still had a shard of Voldemort in my soul, but it was fading away. He said that he would go and try to destroy the Unseen as one last favor for him—me.” It was sometimes hard to know what he should say about that supposed shard when he was talking to people who weren’t Death Eaters.  
  
 _Or Draco._ Draco was the one who understood the most.  
  
But Ron and Hermione were staring at him with openly horrified eyes, and Hermione burst out, “What if he’d  _bitten_ someone?”  
  
“I specifically told him not to do that,” Harry said firmly. “And it seems like he obeyed me.” He nodded at the article. “Otherwise, I think that we would have heard about the new werewolves right away.” He grimaced a little. “If only because the papers seem to think that new Dark wizards are top news.”  
  
“How could he get through the spells I had up?”  
  
Harry smiled gently at Hermione. “I wondered that, too, but it turned out that he really  _didn’t_ want to harm me. He simply entered the house and swore loyalty to me and said that he would be happy to die in the charge against the Unseen.” Harry reached for the paper, and Ron handed it to him with what seemed to be a numb grasp. Harry looked at it, nodding. “And that’s what he did.”  
  
“You sent him to his  _death_.”  
  
Hermione’s voice was small. Harry looked up. “It was the best solution I could think of,” he said.  
  
Ron and Hermione exchanged one disturbed glance, and then Ron said, “So playing Voldemort for a while really did change you.”  
  
Harry stood up, slowly. He knew Ron didn’t mean anything by it. He knew how difficult this was for his friends to understand. If he’d heard about this from the outside, if he didn’t know all the details or even if he did know some, he would probably find it just as hard to believe as Ron and Hermione apparently did.  
  
But he was sick of the justification and explanations. And it seemed that no matter what happened, he didn’t get any better at giving them, and they didn’t get any better at listening. He was going to give one more, exactly one more, and then he would go away for a while and leave things between them to cool off. Maybe they would both have got better at words when he saw them again.  
  
“Greyback was always going to be a problem,” he said. “Aurors would have died trying to take him down. I don’t even want to think about how many ordinary wizards he could have killed if he had decided to spend the full moon in some crowded place. And the Unseen were obsessed with absorbing my magic into Lethe. They would try to influence the Ministry into hunting me, maybe years after the fact. Why  _shouldn’t_ I do something that would take care of those problems?”  
  
“You sent Greyback to his  _death_.” Hermione’s voice was still small.  
  
“What would you have done to him?” Harry countered instantly. “Azkaban? He evaded capture twice already.”  
  
“He still—died.” Ron shook his head and then braced himself to look at Harry. “It’s like you’re playing executioner, mate, choosing who lives and who dies. That’s what really disturbs me, more than you playing Voldemort.”  
  
“I can see why it would,” Harry said. And he could see that, he could see it clearly. He was just finding it harder to remember why he should  _care_. “But the Ministry was willing to do that to me. And the Unseen. And the Death Eaters. Greyback got the death he wanted. He died happy. No one else did, not even the Unseen, but their power’s been broken, and they can’t use it to hurt me or anyone else now. If you want to look at it in terms of sheer morality, it was one death against many. Wasn’t it.”  
  
Ron whispered, “I can see it that way.”  
  
He didn’t need to say more. He wasn’t any happier about this than Harry was, even if he could see Harry’s point-of-view just like Harry could see his.  
  
Harry sighed a little. “There’s another thing I should tell you.” Hermione turned towards him with a sad, knowing look in her eyes that made Harry want to delay saying anything, but really, there was no reason to put it off. “I’ll be leaving with Draco today.”  
  
Ron closed his eyes. Hermione whispered, “But if you think that your enemies have all been defeated—except for Lestrange, I suppose—”  
  
“Greyback killed him. For talking badly about me—Voldemort.”  
  
Hermione blinked once or twice, then seemed stoically to accept that. “Then why go? You know as well as I that we’ll—get past this. Learn to be comfortable with each other again.” She gestured around them all in a circle, never taking her eyes off Harry. “Our friendship has survived worse strains.”  
  
Harry gave her a smile. “It has. But there’s still that.” He nodded to the huge pile of presents and letters in the corner of their dining room. “I don’t want to stay in a world where people turn on me the instant they think I’m Dark or evil—and they thought I was Dark or evil faster than anyone else who tested a certain color in the Lightfinder—and then beg me for help again.”  
  
“That’s happened before, though, mate,” Ron said. “They thought you were evil during second year when they heard you speak Parseltongue, and they still honored you for saving Ginny at the end of that year.”  
  
“But I’m allowed to get tired of it,” Harry said quietly.  
  
“Will you never come back?”  
  
That was Hermione. Harry turned towards her. “I’ll come back to visit,” he promised. “To see you and Bill and Fleur and anyone else who’s still a friend. But I can’t sit here waiting for the Ministry’s next move and not knowing what it’s going to be.”  
  
“They might send people after you, though,” Ron pointed out, and his voice was muted in a way that reminded Harry of wings fluttering against the bars of a cage. “What will you do if they do that?”  
  
“For what?” Harry gave a small smile. “Officially, I was with you for my own protection. The Wizengamot already heard a confession under Veritaserum of everything I did and didn’t do. They could pursue me, of course. They could do the same thing to Draco, and they might, because I never did get a good answer as to why they hadn’t just tried him for all his crimes at once. But I think, if I stay out of the country quietly for the most part, and Apparate back in to visit whoever I want to see discreetly, Kingsley will manage to turn things around.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Hermione said. “You shouldn’t have to act like it’s not your country, too.”  
  
“I agree,” said Harry, and no more than that. This was the reality he’d shaped, chosen, and fallen into, maybe roughly in that order. Protesting wouldn’t change that.  
  
Perhaps Hermione knew that, because she suddenly flung her arms around him and held him in silence. Harry closed his eyes and hugged her back.  
  
“Promise me that you’ll write,” Hermione whispered, as she opened her eyes and stepped back, wiping them. “I don’t want to—to think of you being lonely and not having anyone to talk to.”  
  
“I’ll have Draco,” Harry said gently. “But I know what you mean. Yes, I’ll write. I’ll get an owl as soon as I think that we’re in a place where we won’t be recognized.” He turned to Ron.  
  
Ron opened his mouth as if he was going to offer a more substantial protest, and ended up saying, “Oh,  _hell_ ,” and hugging Harry as hard as he could, which was hard enough to make Harry’s ribs gasp in protest. “Promise me that you’re going to be safe.”  
  
“As much as I can,” Harry promised. “I don’t have any reason to go charging into the politics of other places. I just—I want to live quietly, and rest.” He stepped back and sighed. “I’m really tired.”  
  
“I know, mate.” Ron nodded, hesitated, and then hugged him again, which had to be followed by another hug from Hermione, and then a moment when all three of them stood leaning together, wrapped in each other’s arms, sheltering from the storm.  
  
Harry wondered for a moment if that was the way they also saw it, that they got to stay snug at home while he went out into the storm.   
  
But it wasn’t the way  _he_ saw it. Along with the desire for rest, there was an excited feeling stirring in him, like the first moments when he stood up and shook off the numbness that came from sitting on his feet.  
  
 _I want to see what’s going to happen, when we go on._  
  
*  
  
Draco smiled slightly as he turned around to welcome Harry and Sal, who sat on his shoulder. They had agreed to meet in front of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Harry had said they ought to go from a place that had seen a lot of their plotting. Draco had the impression that Harry might even have preferred to take their leave from in front of the manor house where the Death Eaters had lived, but that was still crawling with Aurors extracting evidence based on Harry’s information.  
  
Harry looked weary and dusty-eyed, but he obviously lit up when he saw Draco. “Hi,” he said breathlessly, and sped over to clasp Draco in his arms and swing him around, before leaning forwards and mashing his lips against Draco’s in a kiss.  
  
Draco, laughing, went with it, and then leaned against Harry and shut his eyes when it was done. He could get used to this, he thought in contentment.  _More_  than used to this. “Your friends didn’t object?” he murmured.  
  
“Are you kidding? Of course they did.” Harry leaned even more heavily against Draco, making them sway for a second until they found their balance again. “But I made it clear that I’d come back to visit them, and I’m—just tired of all the things that so many people are requesting me to do. It started up again the minute they accepted I was innocent, can you believe it? Demands for help and donations and promotions and—I don’t even understand what the rest of it was.”  
  
Draco gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He knew how annoying it must be, but as far as he was concerned, this was the moment when they started leaving all things like that behind.  
  
Harry seemed to think it was, too, because he smiled and leaned back from Draco. “I have clothes, and books, and the things that remind me of my parents, and a bunch of Galleons from my Gringotts account,” he said. “I got the letter from Astoria that she and Pansy are safe in Iceland, and we can join them whenever we want. Where do you think we ought to go first?”  
  
“I thought about that,” Draco said. “Because I packed one thing that you didn’t.” He pulled a map out of his pocket, one of the more recently updated ones that were among his ancestors’ books. It showed most of the magical communities and split Muggle-magical communities all over the world, although it got a bit spotty in parts of South America. “What do you think?”  
  
Harry laughed and tilted his head to look at it. “Do you want me to pick one randomly?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Before Harry could close his eyes and stab with his finger, though—which was sort of what Draco had been picturing—Sal took off from Harry’s shoulder, and trailed his tail deliberately down the map. He ended up planted in the sea to the west of Ireland. Draco rolled his eyes at him.  
  
“No, wait,” Harry said, and leaned even more precariously, which meant Draco had to push them back into a rough balance again. “There  _is_ something there. Molehill Island?”  
  
Draco cocked his head. “So there is. Does it have the symbol for a magical community on it?”  
  
Harry looked the map key, moving his lips for a second. Draco watched the side of his face and felt as if he were physically falling in love right there.  
  
“Hmmm. Only the symbol that means ‘there used to be a magical community here, I don’t know if there still is.’” Harry pushed the hair back from his eyes and turned to smile at Draco. “Shall we go see if it’s still there?”  
  
“We’ll do more than that,” Draco said, and caught the back of his neck, drawing Harry towards him and watching, enjoying, the widening of his eyes. “We’ll talk to the people there, and investigate if there’s no one, and find out what happened. And maybe we’ll stay there for a while in peace.”  
  
“How are we going to get there, when there’s probably no Apparition coordinates?” Draco had to smile to hear Harry sound so breathless.  
  
“We’ll find out,” Draco said, and his hand was on Harry’s, and Sal was entwined around both their shoulders as they leaped into darkness on the first of their Apparitions.   
  
 _This is what we need for right now._  
  
 _I wonder what we’ll find out we need?_  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
